Funeral of identities

molinetto

Another day, another funeral,
One for each name that I wore.
Saint, sinner, hero and bastard,
Rare stone and rough stone,
Lover, love, and disown.
No sound, time nor colour,
Can really stick over me
And each of them will burn in the fire of truth.
‘Cause my self is like the mill wheel,
which ground the flour, returns the water to the river.

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