My heart wrote this poem for you, my hands are innocent,
this blend of black and white, of dark and light.
But all the joy I rhymed with bliss,
got lost inside the sorrow.

My heart painted this masterpiece for you, my hands are
bound,
this touch of sadness in a happy frame.
But every shade my brush has known,
was paler than your halo.

But if I show you all this art, you would only run away
And so it rots inside my heart, and so I let it lay