The bastards buried me too soon.
Granted, my chest is a pin-cushion for poison darts
And the rocks they threw have broken me;
But had someone thought to look in my eyes-
They never would have flung me through the charnel-house door
And walked back into town dusting their hands.
It was always in my eyes, you see? The howling fire
That痴 now a flickering flame-
A candle keeping vigil in the high tower
Of some walled citadel.

When I知 ready;
When I feel my strength come back,
I値l begin again to climb
The rotting hill of flesh.
And though it is pitch-black in the charnel-house,
The air stewed with stink and insects;
I値l follow the sound of two-faced eulogising
And find the way out.
I知 afraid I have no qualms
About using grinning jaws of corpses for a foothold.
If I have to sink my fingers
Into the ocular cavities of those who went before me
Right down to the second knuckle,
Then so be it.
The carrion-flies will even feed me on my ascent.

Then when I致e reached the top
I値l kick down the charnel-house door
(There痴 no handle on the inside).
I値l blink into the sunlight naked
And not ashamed.
I値l be frail and new and covered in blood again;
But this time, not helpless.
And this time, no thanks to mother or father.

This time,
When they ask me for my name
I値l choose my own.
And it will be a terrible scream.