That you have wrought and worked from the hearts of men.
And every sweet thought and word of passion have forgotten.
What you possess and protect is a feeling of hatred.
Where before your beauty and soul were held sacred.
Now you are left, Ravaged by your own tool.
Whoever believes in stopping you is believed a fool.
Why can’t you come back and be mine?
Why won’t you turn back, sweet time?
To a period where my mind held no worry.
How I wish you would accept that I am sorry.