Your hands, so cruel
I used to worship them like they were guillotine
You raised vices to an art form
And painted pictures, using words as knives
An ancient castle that harbors danger -
The man who doesn't write prose
He drinks angel's tears like water
That man who doesn't write prose
The master of my hungry dreams
You once too were a part of them
You've disappeared in cold waters
Without giving me a chance to know what happiness means
He won't warm the frozen rose n his hands
The man who doesn't write prose
He drinks angel's tears like water
That man who doesn't write prose