In life's lost candor, we bleed in pain,
wasting breath, celebrating life in vain.
In war, it is often said, that death is life’s glory,
the signpost of perfection, of immortality.
Elysium sees us but hears us no more,
Achilles feels our pain, but cares no longer.
Between us, the eternity of love is an irony.
Love’s no bed of roses, but a broken day.
This love stares but speaks not of infinity,
I think about us, but your heart dare not stay.