At the distance of the high autumn requiem
The diary was all he had, unfolded
Words and distinct meaning of the fierce
Wrath of that distinction is that of her

The wrath is the warmth of the morning
It is the sweater from a heart that wishes solitude of good fortune
Fortune so twisted in knaves of his command
It is o'er the blood of blues to imagine him

Leave him, cause a deary heart is too dreamy
Dreamy and flirty, it might ruin this autumn
But a soul is broken if only the rule isn't pretty
The rule was over death but was no more

This feast is neither tasty and nor is it poison
Neither is the epitome of oppression nor power
Neither the women nor the demon
It is the most of him with empty will of existence

So leave me for good as i don't own him
Is the night the sunny day without the eyes
Or is it the vengeance of the god to make me die
Without a last dream.