This lonely cell is cold and gray,

And we shiver, but this we try to hide.

Through the window the dying day

Goes unnoticed by the men inside.

The small one chatters in his corner alone;

It seems his mind left him, moments ago.

My hands have become as ash, or as bone,

And my body is soon to follow.

It feels that time, this moment, has frozen,

And that any second we will see skies.

But I am not chosen.

So I sit, with laughter in my eyes.

Life is grand, with the warning

That I shall be dead in the morning.