They ought to handle you with care,
the ease of your destruction, a power to beware.

Sailors, willfully drowned, as if to stifle their lust.

Nations crumbled, in their pillars, the bite mark of your rust.

Who knew man could find solace in the cold?
If only to escape such an erosion of the soul.

They ought to handle you with care,
you who would lovingly strip our bones bare.