[Masa]

Our music of love was a warm serenade,
For years I have prayed,
That through any brief struggle, conflict, or fight,
Once I was sure that we would be all right.

And the notes have broke my heart,
As we slowly move apart.

The warm music grows cold as the red sun sets,
My voice speak regrets,
Can I still manage to play without your own?
A dying king sitting on uncaring stone.

The bitter melody cries,
As I try to form reprise.

As night falls upon my weakened euphony,
I feel like I see,
The scars of our fight, in your eyes and your hand,
As my discords break our once beautiful band.