One day you'll know what you have done:
When the beauty ended, this warfare begun.
Backed by your army of insults and hate,
I stand by myself and I know it's too late.
Weakly I hold up my scarce shield of truth,
Painted blatantly with colours of proof.
Your merciless army strikes nevertheless,
Trying to get me to wrongly confess.
I will not give in, I don't want to lie,
My shirt's stained with blood, because I cannot cry.
I'll never tell you what you want to hear,
Though the thoughts and the pains are so severe.
I'll be a martyr, if this should be so,
And once I am, you then will know.
The beautiful times, long since ended,
Damaged so badly, they'll never be mended.
