It's not of what I will pray,
It's not of what people say.
To stand on your own feet,
To see your inner defeat.
The thing is not in the truth,
The case is of wanting the truce.
It's not what I'm really worth,
But it's getting constantly worse.
Somebody sweeps the scene,
The last light in ceiling is seen.
And the last of poverty scent
Costs on the corner a cent.
You try to keep straight your gait,
Walking through heaven's gate.
But when will you understand
That heaven is just the end?