Aren’t we a ballad of melancholy?
Aren’t we a love, quietly distraught?
We are to fill ourselves with loneliness
While sipping each other’s tears
We are to conjure grey rainbows
While clouds burst into barren rains
But it’s not the real woe
It’s not which cuts open the heart
The affliction is to be remain thirsty
After drinking from the streams of heaven.