Almost as if it is locked in a cage
My gentle compassion was mirrored by your rage
Even corrupt mercy would have paid
The price to touch a dream that was laid
Not by a saint, nor with a serenade
But by the white fingertips it was bared

If it is the grieve that I can no longer stop
Or if the gentle words will never come by
If the shores of this love will be flooded by
The kind of greed that past atop
My waters, in the reflection of the sky
Your face can no longer be seen