Wisdom has many faces
Hunting light in their own riverbeds
I often smell truth and sometimes
It doesn't smell good..

Why don't you hit me?
A fist hurts for a bit
Was it for your own good,
Or was it for mine?

All these long years,
these bloody tears went deep down on my riverbeds
Smell truth and sometimes
It doesn't smell good…

Why don't you hit me?
A fist hurts for a bit
Was it for your own good?
Or was it for mine?

Why don't you hit me?