As if the swiftness glides on by,
the gentleness begins to cry.
Only those who see feel the tears.
The pencil I hold tears the skin.
Such the wonders that it can make.
Or the wonders that it can break.
The pencil I hold tears the skin.
The people I know feed the flame.
Only those who see feel the tears.
The pencil I hold tears the skin.
The tears known only to a few,
hold precedence over it all.
The pencil I hold tears the skin.
They remain, for both good and bad.
There is no way to rid yourself,
assuming that you know of them.
