In the evening that no one remembers,
I stand here holding her hand.
It’s so fragile, I don’t wanna crush it,
the blood is pulsing in her veins.
In the evening long forgotten,
I stand here by the window,
gently holding that hand with a knife,
the hand of my dear murderer.
First snow flakes are melting on the window,
as grey figures are passing by.
I am looking at all these people,
all of them have nothing to say.
All of them have one thing in common.
All of them just ceased to care.
In the evening that has been lost,
in this place that may not exist,
I sit here quietly on the floor,
in the arms of the killer of mine.
The blood keeps pulsing deep in her veins.
Her fragile hand is still holding mine.
The other hand is clasping the knife
so gently stuck to my spine.
In the evening that no one remembers,
the Piece of Stone has shattered within.
Now I know there’s no one to care,
no hand to hold, just the hole in the back.
At that night that I did not live through,
when all the tears have frozen within,
snow flakes were melting on the window
and I never felt pain anymore.
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