Some mother has built candy houses for your frailty.
Some woman has stolen the moon to make it a cradle.
Your being fragile is the weapon you use to twist people’s will,
cause the weaker is more likely to become the slaughterer.
So don’t let me be the one to sing this swan song for our mindgame,
as now I wake up to let my sight betrayed once more by longing
and Athens the enlightened is burning.
Dew of death,
it was never there to quench my thirst,
only to rain on my parade,
sad joke that only you can understand.
And when I woke up, I was there no more;
and fantasy tales were coming to life on their own.