Yoko Fushigina

July 22, 2003 - Tokio
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There are no doors or windows, start or end.
Raindrops do not irrigate this dried dead land.
Sunlight skirts this place, not coming near.
Amnesia blinded memories of why I'm here...
The restless wander here with cut hands downcast,
Dejected by despondency, envy, anger, lust,
Shaped into slowly swinging clinking chains.
They pray for the redemption to both sinners and saints.

A howl is heard at night, but these aren't wolves;
In fear, I hear them banging their heads against the walls.
It seems, the truth has just been realized by those who found,
And now they're ready to sell their souls to Devil to get out.
In their grievous madness everyone here is the same:
Everyone was thrown by life into the heat of pain.
We were unlucky to display our calamity,
Though it could be another way if people had humanity...

The monsters stray around, they hunt us down;
And every single one is dressed in sterile gown.
They whisper in my ear sweet faulty hopes,
Yet then inject another morphine dose.
They said: "Thanks to my cure normality will raise".
But how can sick mend someone else?
It's endless heinous coterie of sins -
They break us down to have lab rats to fix.

Behind the rescue exit lies the void.
Insanity which bound my will can't be destroyed.
Now gloom protracts me into the abyss;
No one will ever hear low signal S.O.S.
I'm in the asylum; crazy, like all others,
My tired eyes only discern two colours:
Gray, colour of the loneliness and harm;
Red, colour of the hard wounds on my arm.
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