My sorrow feels cold
as winter’s brace on silver.
This sheathless blade I hold…
My hand begins to quiver.
My sorrow feels cold
as winter’s brace on silver.
This sheathless blade I hold…
My hand begins to quiver.
Sitting beneath the weeping willow…
Sitting all alone in the snow.
My crying begins to bellow,
But the only thing listening is my sorrow…
The knife gleams with winter’s sun,
But the blood glows, in my eyes.
The white land turns cromson
As a part within me dies…
My sorrow feels even colder now,
and now I feel hollow inside.
But that’s okay… how?
In hell, my sorrow cannot hide