She, she, she, it is she… It is often she. And in the old songs and in the long nights, she holds him in the softness of her arms, in her arms that are open, in her arms that are wide, that are open, that are always, that must always be open. And in the old ways and in the old laws, this was arranged. All this was arranged. And who arranged it? Did Amel? And that is what it means to be loved. It is Amel. It is always Amel. It is often she… Into the land where the dead are kept, where the dead are worshipped. And why the days without number? And what am I for? What is this for? And what should Amel do with it if not to answer? And why are they throwing stones? And why is she curled on the ground? And why is it wound… And in my eyes is desire, and why is it desire? And why does he tell her what God has said? And why Amel in their mouths? And why must my voice be smooth? And why must I sing so low? And why is she kept? Why must she be kept? And why in this place must she be kept? And what does it mean if you are not asked? And what does it mean if you are not answered? And what is it to see and to know, but to be told… You have not seen. You have not known. And why is her tongue cut out? And why is her death prolonged? And when will it stop? And who will stop it? And why must they, must we, must I, must he, must they, as the millennia, unfold? Why the girl curled? Why her eyes lowered? Why on the side of the road? Why limp in the straw? I am the girl! I am the god! I am the voice! I am the song! I am the night! And I can answer! I can arrange it! I can say rise, and I can say speak! And I am her! And I am she! And I, I, I, I am the answer!
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baratheonpilled
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