My skyward craft was deconstructed.
Left to dust, it could have flown,
Had not this toy sung it to home.

It was my fault that it resembled,
Far too much, a fleeting moth.
So long this world and all its nightmares,
So long my friend, the aching world.

For too long my father, soaked in slaughter,
Held this grudge on a seeking child.

Welcome my laughter, disguised as a daughter,
Unrecognized by her sick godfather:
A real machine made to unleash.

Her naked smile is a gate to Hell,
Behold, inside a metal burning trail.
When the fuse is short, the clouds will burst.
A real machine set to release the curse.