Many sleepless nights ago
I dreamt of a cabin covered in snow...

The day that bird disappeared, it could not recall...
It began in the coastal air as the sun coyly...

Little hands, I wish I could say
That I knew what it meant to be loved...

Crisp was the quill that bled his likeness.
Feeble was the hand by which his vignette was...

Crisp was the quill that bled his likeness.
Feeble was the hand by which his vignette was...

I try to picture the night you left home.
Was the hall undisturbed as the door sat ajar...

Your eyes lit up like a bolero
Upheld by the liveliest of castanets...

“Why does man abhor his truth?” asked the...
Molded by the darkest obsidian through millennia...

Little hands, I wish I could say
That I knew what it meant to be loved...