Bury the child in a broken coffin
with an empty censer, for who will pray?
You killed her with your bloody hands;
she starved for the food you stole.
She was your child, so beautiful,
with a sweet and untrained voice,
yet most who saw her told you
that she'd make the world rejoice.
When the winter came, she faded away,
shadows of monsters in clouds of steam
from the fires crying out in the hearth
drawing you back you back to your home
where they would tell you:
"She doesn't exist, there is no child.
Monsters and visions are lies.
All poets are dead to the world
and hope won't feed the stomach.
Hearts are not for dreaming,
only for your blood."
Oh dreamer, why did you listen to them?
You returned to find her gone.
To the place that you had stolen away to,
hiding the child in the snow.
Bury the child in a broken coffin,
who will pray for the golden dream?
Will you notice the phoenix,
Will you remember me?