An hollow heart, and empty of love,
But full of dirous, dreadful dreams.
A heart that taintly loved,
A heart that faintly dreamt of love,
A heart of wrathful passions,
A heart that burns with its own fiery intentions,
Leaving no more than a barren set of ashen ruins.
Such is the immensity of emptiness.
The heart that expires its bloody tears cries its past, its love:
A set of futile memories which stroked its loathsome soul.
And thus the heart remains be-lied,
Believing that 'twas full of fiery love,
Not realising that 'tis full of empty ice.
And this is the immensity of emptiness
That passions bygone, and love be-thought caress'd.
