In the puppeteers' minds, they wanted you dead;
to be a still, cold puppet with heavy make-up applied on-
that your eternal beauty to be displayed forever more
and you'd not respond even to the deadliest of the night:
even if the ground's a tidal earthquake;
and the sky a continuous crack.
O, in the shadows she dances through the puppeteers' strings:
and how tears drip down my face when news reached me
how you died while I sought with my fist in blood
just to remember your words one last time.

That gentle smile I used to hold, smiling back every single time-
and the words that came from your small little lips;
filled with humor and laughter, even though you
were the splitting image of my lost love in vain-
and dead was the voice that willed me to breathe.
My stomach wrenches and my head burns,
my heart sang a serenade just to shatter itself to pieces
and these hating eyes' tears refused to stop:
because I never thought things would feel this wrong
when you're gone to somewhere my hands can't reach.