Étipo - Volume VI: Fumo Mental - Perfectly Dead

It's perfect...
Because it's nothing.
There's no good, no bad,
No hate, no fear, no love...
No pain.
There's nothing that the living had:
There's no Sun to cut our eyes,
No night to blind us with dark,
There's no "because", and there's no "why?"'s...
No smiles, but there's no cries.
There's no time to run late,
No past to remember with hurt.
No future to dream, and fight for,
But there's nothing to lose...
Nor to fail with hate.
There's no birds, no trees, no skies,
But there's no wars, no violence, no death...
Because we're not living any more.
No body, no soul, no head:
Just perfectly...
Dead.