Still furious that I cannot heal by choice nor my nature.
Still furious that when I think I have na control,
Still furious ‘cos I’m weaker than before, time seems to be my distateful capture.
When the night is young, the air is light and wind is warm, my wound bleeds quitely…
I know it bleeds but this wound no one knows, and no doctor can mend.
Still furious, as I protect it