After each squandered day,
A recurrent occasion,
In my bed do I lament,
Am I wasting my time?
Is it too late to have achievements?
Am I too late to change?
The moon softly consoles,
A sad piano in her voice,
For she has seen this many times,

The gate is slowly closing,
And my panic claws at its timber,
The sand runs away,
And my bloodshot eyes weep at the loss,
But this was all my doing,
I tied this blood-red noose,
Many moons ago,
And with each sundown it grows tighter,
The portcullis edges lower.


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