The one who never dreams and hardly sleeps
made of shiny rocks, drifts away with slightest wind.
One who wins and throws away,
no possession he keeps.
The bad blood of mysterious misery,
no house he belongs to.
and to no one he answers.
For no apparent purpose,
Worth of stories
Wanders through the spiny woods
Survives on the thorny roots
So adhere to that petty life, Come rain and storm.
Come rain and storm, wash away everything,
everything but his poor poor life.
For on his poor life a prophecy relies.
You see, he is the Prince that was promised.
He indeed is the prince that was promised,
to a beautiful witch who never age.
Then only his soul is freed of his mortal cage.
Prophecy came true,
they became one,
they mate,
and she ate.
On the wedding night she feasts on him like her every prey.
and Voilà!
the next morning she wakes up,
to see her hair start turning grey.
