Tomb of my past loves,
Smelling rotten,home of the flyes,
Filled with decayed memories,
With withed petals of the roses
I offered with love but remained in my hands.

Winter wind blowing on my unfulfilled love
Like a haunting guitar chord.
Feelings surrounded by fog
Disappear when i'm sitting near the stove.

Clouds filled with hopes made in vain,
Remorses are scratching my brain,
Now i'm waiting the suffering to drain.

Black Sunday of my tears,
Real became my worst fears.

Dead swans float on the Lake of Tears.