Somebody talks to the wind
And chases it as if it will give in.
Somebody runs through the trees
As if somewhere along the lines
He could escape this life;
All hope to escape his lies.
Somebody keeps a secret and tucks it away,
Somebody puts it in a white box and covers it in clichés.
Somebody writes a letter and pens it with black ink
As if his markings start to sink
And hide his hidden mask he sees!
Oh what a temptation to take a peek;
To open the letter before it's time to read;
To run through the grass before the time of spring;
To drink all the wine and have nothing to eat;
To take the best times and leave none left for dreams;
To spend all the days wishing to have another;
To count down the time
Until
The
Very
Last
Number.

-In the end it wont matter whether we ever made it,
Whether the grass was greener or stayed forsaken.
In the end it wont matter what we stole and we got,
We will disappear into the earth, and we will be forgot.
The only thing that matters is when I go and transcend
That my love for you was constant; it was until the end,
For what a tragedy
For me to breathe
Without giving you my breath-