She stands (central) in a field of whatever you'd like it to be,
her wrists ringed in silver innocence.
I can tell that the night offers up the stars to her.
And she borrows the light of the day.
No transcendence can carry her away.
In the end, the saints found time to condemn her.

With a smile, she sings apocalyptic prophecies,
holding the rain in a leash.
When her voice is tired, she implores you to sing for her.
But her tears are carved from the rain
and she says, "I don't want to explain".
But with words, there's nothing much you can promise her.

Take me home, take me home, take me home,
take me through the bleeding night.
Take me down the road so I can meet with her.
The moonlight reflects off her mirror-skin.
You make wagers that you might win.
But there's nothing (real) you can get from her.