Thy art is grace,
The highest state humans embrace,
Thy art is born,
Through the "brightest" mind and soul...
The pain, the memory, the filth,
The love, the desire, the guilt,
Are all in pages of ink spillt,
That have the touch of finest silk...
She is my muse, a statue of beauty,
But with wet eyes...she cries a lot...
An angel sent on earth that has the grand duty,
To warm human hearts...
To warm other hearts, when you have yours cold?
How can you be so cruel, with a spirit so old,
That has lived forever....forever of stone,
A shadow of a beauty long lost...
How much does a human life cost?
For how long will she be imprisoned,
We try to melt down this beauty of frost,
But all we can do is to inflict pain...
Through art...we can kill...
Through art...we became,
The guards of her cage...
The sky is crying...
For those who are dying...
The muse of my bliss,
May she rest in peace...
In the end, I was lying...
You were never meant to be free,
You are meant to leave the marks,
Of genius, of might and of holy...
On my mind, body and heart...
