In the tragic play
a marionette of the clock
pages filled with a chronicle in blood
scents and sights,come back to me
my life in memories, makes me want to go
try and hold on to what's left of all
the golden scenes i forever want to know
the curtains are lifted
reveal a spectacle of rare
'til the final act i am your tragic one
soaring in the wind
sounds - so transcendent
so faint and softly
carries me above
scents and sights...