Oh, what melancholy
Can describe these cloudy climes
Which the Earth paints an epiphany of folly: revealing your twisted crimes.

I once thought truth was true
Feeling the zest of our embrace
The verdure of our love ceased to be-
No longer grew.

I'm walking down a path of autumn's
Bombardment; broken branches, tossed away dreams.
The cooling gust makes my lips numb. The chill comes from you it seems.

By the brook, there is a whisper wandering, wailing:
'Fear not, the future is near'
But how can I penetrate the smog settling on my blind eyes?
It remains unclear.

I can never win- therefore I cannot love.
I have fallen so low from the clouds above.
I alone, in my selfishness, can please
Beelzebub
And my discardment, shall to You, be the white dove.