May be I've written all I had to write,
may be I've said all I had to say...

The gate was closed,
the river dried,
the portal sealed,
the poet died.

I've packed my things while there's still time,
soon they'll march in here and take this too,
I don't feel nothing I've lost the key,
but then again what's it to you?

God if the crime I commited was charged with sin,
by heaven's gates take anything,
anything but my palpitating fingers,
return to me the empty words,
the shattered puzzle I cannot complete,
to form the feeling that still yet lingers.

For what's a singer without a song?
What's a knight without his sword?
What's a writer without words?

Take the sunrise from my eyes,
or the music from my mouth,
take the songs out of my ears,
take it all that I adore,
but oh God let me write once more!