Why did you leave? How could you stoop so low?
When did love die, and a vile bramble grow?
How did the spirit that lived in your eyes,
Capture and slaughter my soul where it lies?
I can not believe that the flowers of spring,
Could suffer the envy of love that you bring.
My heart is now bleeding, the raw blood of dead,
The moon is now weeping, the deep colour of red.
A scorn is far sweeter than the bitter hate of life,
It has scratched down far deeper than the slash of a knife.
Your mind has done the action; your spirit turned the key,
My rancid heart is gushing, surging to the sea.
The spiteful lust of love has been woven in your skin,
Don't use me as your plaything; don't toss me in the bin.
I don't even mind the bruises, the insults and the strife.
All I want is my memories, my spirit and my life.