I will walk the thorns of pain
not now, but maybe someday,
when your thoughts deceive torment
and I 'll run across fire to caress your sands.
A willow, a majestic grace, burns longer - proud
- then a rotten one, dying everywhere; cold
so will you be, crushing the remnants of the soul.
In the gutter shall my remains fall, calm
in pouring rain and Thor aloud,
even the roses close to keep warm.
Softly, it drips out of me,
mixing with blood and poison,
ball of darkness begins and at last I see
the temptation, the only one ever chosen.