With my days and my facts,
With what I think and what I believe
I pay the rent for the cross.

I did whatever I did,
I lost the wonder of nights,
Bringing the dark between the words,
I pushed the days to the limits of my thoughts
And screamed in all languages I know:

“Crush that Jesus in me!”

The words they didn’t work as I would,
My thoughts they didn’t listen to my needs
And I follow my Calvary
As an empty bag in the wind.

Somebody brought desires on me
And from that moment I know I’m kept in my flesh
As a photo of my death.

There’s no science or miracles to do,
No signs or mysteries to understand,
It’s not important what you search or what you get,
It’s no more future, neither past,
It’s not the pain, the joy or fear in the jar,
It’s just the bottle full of whisky on your desk,
A bobble on the daily storm,

And the rent for the cross I have to pay.

So I’ve done whatever I’ve done,
But, when there is senseless to ask
And no answer to come,
I see the night became a mirror,
Souls looking in the fear,
I only can say:
“Crush that Jesus in me!”

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