With each passing hour I grow colder still,
how empty foresights my arrival await.
Fleeting warmth my inanimate frill,
in jest mocks at my judgement day.
Yet a wingless angel has me blessed,
upon my weary form in dismay.
My muse, my life! My mind is possessed!
For your sealed wings with my pulses pray.
O please my dearest blame thyself not,
for all sins are but my own cascade.
Then my life would anyways be worth naught,
if darkness be my eventual fate.
Let this stand as my final testament,
lest from now on I have no longer a heart.
A mortal soul was poisoned by lament,
from my human past I may forever part.
Unreservedly I gave my heart to thee,
yet on her frail form you carelessly tread.
How she weeps at your impetuous decree,
her fate is sealed by the shadows of dread.
Yet how regrets haunt my clairvoyant curse,
of an arctic future in which my corpse crawls on.
Yet my blood runs dry and my will withers,
perhaps, death shall grant the answers I long.
