I wear a cloak of compassion,
Woven only out of love,
Nothing else. At least that's why they say.
Others are made with love, happiness, and joy.
Whoever touches this cloak, instantly knows,
What others don't feel, I do.
But they don't know what is what.
What my cloak really is.
My cloak.
Is nothing, yet it is everything.
It is nothing to me.
Yet everything to others.
Just like some people don't care about their lives.
But I don't care about theirs.
Just me.
Just me.
That's why the clock is red.
With their bloodshed.
They didn't believe me.
They don't believe anything anymore
