we always seem to leave there in the rain not in light drizzle but a heavy pour that catches us straightway we leave the door yet we're back with no reason once again to find our way through torrents to the plain it seems too much and yet we ask for more as if this were a torment we adore the price of pleasure being this hard strain the thunder speaks and we dare not respond since all our fears are centred in that sound when it is echoed by each traitor heart revealing that we won't refuse the bond and most afraid that hope will not rebound because our hands and minds have lost the art