I wish I could make this photograph of you alive
Your trace of smile the colours of your eyes
Somewhere in this sad and frozen face
I recognize the ache of your exposed grace
On the waves of tenderness
Through the sweetness of air
Nothing remains but the memory
Of your shimmering hair

I'm sorry but I can't hold on your fleeing time
Therefor I would pay with the stream of my vein
But the rust corrodes our helpless souls
While the flute plays its endless repeating notes

On the waves of tenderness
Through the sweetness of air
Nothing remains but the memory
Of your shimmering hair.