Oh tired heart, why do you cry, don’t you know of love.
Heart of mine, you feel you will die, it is the dark of dust that makes it cry.
The dust makes the heart not see. The darkness makes the heart not feel.
Stuck in paralyzing shock. Coated in its rotting grape soaked lot.
The light will cure the sickly heart. If only it will start.
To feel the warmth of heat from the son of the Love.
Dust and dark clouds kills the warm heat, and covers the mind of the heart.
Restless in a desperate search of sleep, only to lay awake in a heap.