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Sitting on my chair, I watch the world and try to find another one like you,
waiting between a million puppets full of emptiness and doubt.

Mother of grace, the mask on my face is made of dirt, falling on my chest.
I’m trying to remember the colors of December but the sail on my mind is as black as the coal.

The raindrops streaming down the window are shining like diamonds and gold.
A melancholic melody is playing inside my head all along.

Mother of grace, I mark on my flesh, words of sorrow never been told.
I’m trying to remember the colors of December but the sail on my mind is as black as the coal.

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