---

Sing to me my trepidation
in silent surround
Dug up from the cold ground
a life unfound

Time is growing older and it has told
that no we are not gold,
and our hearts cannot be sold
to fill spaces in the cold.

Tell me please your expectations
of me,
for I cannot be
all of your imaginary.

Leave with me no sensation
my skin is sand,
and I will form the land
as was always planned.

Time is growing older and it has told
that no we are not gold,
and our hearts cannot be sold
to fill spaces in the cold.

Will you be my restoration,
and let me be,
for I cannot breathe,
if you leave
your love
with me.

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