T i m c a n t o r

Qui que tu sois, Voicy ton maitre - Whoever you are, this (Love) is your master.

Black is the heart

Of the wounded sort

Playing with death upon sufferings’ court

Lost years

Lost blood

Lost what was thought to be

Love

Lo the scorned should be warned

That life is not over until it is transcendently born

Painful as it may be

The new blood you see

Flows red

Through the hands of an angel's decree

The agony does fade

And the anguish does die

With time

But true love strikes quickly like shivering twine

Be it by force or be it by wine

We will all fall victim

To a benevolent crime

Pierced by the notched arrow

Of Saint Valentine