That little mountain rises while other dissolve into a plain, time redefines itself and falls in sadness grain by grain … «Time heals all the wounds», the two — tongued echoes seem to say, but nothing, nothing changes, still pain remains, won’t pass away … I went weal as I grew old, and time itself has made me slow, and as I close my eyes in sadness a thousand seasons come and go … Mighty enough to cover all and also cruel enough to reveal, but the wounds and scars I carry neither force nor kiss can heal … No, time heals nothing, nothing, nothing, spitefully turns away and laughs, leaves you half-broken and in defiance is only added another scar … Call it «blind» how I am writhing, counting hours, centuries. The pain it glows and grows in tides, unable to vanish, unwilling to cease … No time heals nothing, nothing, nothing, pushes ’till we’re diving into different flesh. Time heals nothing, nothing, nothing in the coldness of the inner flames… time’s fingers claw, I am losing hold, there is no hope for me on earth. Time either still or maybe rushing, in any case it will turn out worse … Time is fleeting, time stands still, it stops for no-one and we’re trapped withing. Though I may dream of the light, I am falling back to the left-hand side … «How I wish that I was dead and rest in final peace, but even the luxury of death can’t cure the wounds time cannot heal…»
