I have confessed many times and this
might be the last that I confess my love
for you my dear, I have been a bad child
And that I have climbed many mountains
many moons ago, and I wonder if you can.
Take this hand that bite it off, I no longer need
a hand in the first place, I am weak and is going
to collapse soon, I am afraid of what is to come
And this confession is weak to the bone, I cannot
bend backwards or dance by the trees alone as I
desire to make a ritual by the gods in the sky.
I Am not a tribesman from a North American tribe
leader, I do not know how to count from 1-100
I am as stupid as can be, I am a fool from Africa.
I am a loser in emperors clothes, I am a loser from
the slums of Ethiopia, I am a rebel dying my hair
another colour, pick me and let me confess my love
For you regardless of what I am.
Pick me so I an dance to the sky and moon
with this poem I write to your love
