Father,
Take away this cup from me
If you can
Thy will be done, not mine
Thy will be done, not mine
Death,
I forced your cup to these mouth
With iron hands
My will is done, not their
To destroy and create new bitter life

Oh how often tenderness can be
Nothing more than a cruel stained mirror
Beyond which it carefully hides
The coldest form of detachment

Atrocity lies right there, beside your agonies
Atrocity laughs beside your agonies

And then you serenely contemplate
These mountains of mercy
Slowly slough off in mountains of corpses
Climbing one or another
With the seed of sin
So well disguised with robes of repentance

Mother,
Speak to me from heavenly skies
If you can
Your will was done, not mine
Your will was done, not mine
And life,
Hear my words, these will be my last:
Soon you will love me
As a dead is loved
Love me as a dead is loved