Mourning my own pain, my fatalism in love has conjured my helpless woe, mocking me and murmuring a lifeless hope in me for love.
Driving in a lonely, sheer intuition, the tighter I hold,
the harder I feel the sharp edges of love, peeling my joy and scattering my heart. Alas, it slips through me.
Locked in a dignity of my grief, I fall off anytime I take a stand in love, murdering my trust and painting me with melancholy. Oh! It slips through me.

Circling in the riotous music of love, my heart is...