Many nights I was cold.
Many, many nights lies remain untold.

If had the strength of a lion
And the uncertain heart of The Zion-

Then maybe I would crush-
The endless incineration of the rush-

One does take in self-destruct.
When thy rose has been plucked-

I cannot give it vital growth again.
Nor can life be regrown through distrain.

Then look to thine scars, unhealed.
I am no Jezebel, fate to be sealed-

And to be preyed upon by Serpentines
And then be hated by Byzantines.

So, hence, I will not speak the truth
For they know not of the lies of youth.

Let me cry like do the lost ones;
That never escape the sound of the blazing guns.