My pen have lost its will to bleed;
For the blood in my veins dries slowly as I give.
My papers began to rip as I live;
For the pumper in my chest slowly dies as I grieve.

My hands have lost its sense of touch;
For I forgot to perceive what I can hold and I cannot.
My tongue turned pale as it perpetually rots;
Unable to taste what sweet and sour— unable to determine what’s cold or hot.

My words may come out gibberish and censure;
For my eyes couldn’t see what else is unsure.
And as my mouth speak the words of cure;
A sacrifice must be done— just take my breath and let me wither under the sun.