This skin of resilience,
A Pilgrim traveling the world where confusion spells the words of ma** religions,
Still unafraid to dwell in caves prophets once lived in.
Traditions have captured me in a place to be the idea of one particular race,
Haunted by the strange fruits they thrive from to this day.
The shells we've borrowed engraved with faces of a man never seen,
Gold pendants of His face shines,
Yet their soul never gleams.
The ground that I walk on is water beneath my feet,
The lives buried underneath the soil, float to the top but is never seen
Causing me to question the purpose for it all.