It’s a curse, this here love
a dark sorcerer’s will,
a spell of the ages
cast upon me until
when the sun will bleed grey,
a dark poisoned mist,
a taste of the ending
unquenching the fist.
It’s a curse, this here love
thrown before me and yet
I choke on the grey sun
that never will set
sail, gone, departed,
like the gardens of her.
I would cut it all down
for the gardens that were.
It’s a curse, this here love
it endangers all hope,
I could spend my whole life
writing one single note
to the girl with hair
of a fierce henna red,
I awake every night
haunted by things she said.
It’s a curse, this here love
the sole source of my soul,
as it tears me apart
it alone makes me whole,
but life, as I see, it’s
a cursed, wretched game
and we play it through love
and we’re solely to blame.
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