The stubble on my face engraves my lack of compassion

I'm counting the grass blades to pass the time

Queen-sized comfort awaits my tired eyes

Remember me?

I'm your satire's locksmith

You referred to the way of the sword as hope

Despite the blade in your back

Two days pass and there is still no sign of the sun

But your wait calmly playing checkers with your gut instinct

On the contrary to the heart's self-imprisonment

Your horse shoes fall like hail

I hear your name in the wind my collapsible heart skips a beat

You remain in my head only as a bitter-sweet memory

I've given up sleep

So I can pray for you

Day by day, I bite my tongue

The mental song is sung out loud

It shakes the ground beneath you