The things that people have always desired
Are way too far from me to grasp.
And the generosity of someone's actions
Is way too different wrom what i expect.

Humanity never was extra genuine
They plead for forgiveness and monstrosity's gifts
Their names and their wishes are a small figurine
That are formed by their weaknesses and tears and griefs.

Your plain farewells and the mentions of honor
With ravenous drastic measures you took
It brought you to misery and an entitled horror
Of a person whose figure and lips are all crooked

You can stare into their soul and you will find nothing
With passionate kisses you can bring them to dust
But how can you be sure that remains you're facing
Are someone else’s and not your farce?