Maybe that's the reason I'm marginal,
just alike every ordinary bandit,
I don't bring my hopes into the same pot,
I feel them, and there's no biggest crime than that.
Had we had been all in the same pot,
pottering like the old smoke,
We would be like the drug,
Maybe that's the way the whole world's right now.
Citations, not the policial ones,
Citations from who has the sight beyond sight,
Based in all that I've already seen sailed on before,
One may sink in those words of disordered context.
It's only to copy and set it up,
Like a rag doll,
My feelings, poor of them,
Has been left silent for thousand year ago.
Intuition's not enough to us,
Maybe they have never had it, or it has only been spoiled,
Me, who keeps mine,
I try not to cite my sources and not to be inside the same pot.
But it just does not fit the world good,
And I always keep myself, always, speechless,
Maybe that's the reason I'm marginal,
And by everybody, always, invariably... damned.
Patricky Field
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