eight years have passed

since i started making up for my faults;

but in this world

a new life it too hard to find;

a thief doesn't make up for his sins

by becoming a priest!

for a murderer

repentance only cleans his soul,

prison clears the blood stains on his hands;

for me, my heart is clean, at rest

my mind, isn't free of guilt.

when the present is too dark to see,

the future is out of reach;

the clock has been ticking

still, i can't hear a thing;

it's arms are moving

but in reverse in my mind,

as i try to retake the steps i missed

in my past;

i erase some mistakes

and make more along my way,

in the end, all of it makes no sense

it's an equivalent exchange;

now i realize

the same way you cannot write

what is to come,

you also can't re-write

what has been done.