The Silver Strings.
As I carry my guitar—walls, do separate!
I’m among the living ones while it sobs and sings.
Take all what ye wish and want, cut my throat and veins,
But, I beg, don’t rip ye my cherished silver strings!
My guitar is taken by them, and all’s out of order.
I refused and fought against those damned bastard things.
I cried, “Throw me in the mire, drown me in the water,
But, I beg, don’t rip ye my cherished silver strings!”
Let me dig into the soil and die there, perhaps...
Would ye shield a tortured youth underneath your wings?
They’ve gotten to my weary soul, tear it into scraps,
And I beg, “Don’t rip ye my cherished silver strings!”
What is this, my brothers? Am I really destined
Not to see the cloudless sky, sing and meet daysprings?
They’ve abridged me just of all, left my soul in festers,
And now ripped completely my cherished silver strings!