Silhouette, whose name befalls me still, become me;
Strike where I may fall or to heaven ascend.
Melancholy is but a shade of your sorrow, and more often mine,
So, in painted blood, may I defend
Your secrecy, and may tears be our wine?
Silhouette, whose mark is of the soul, become me;
If so, at last, I see the end.
The Nightmare’s wish is now upon the day—
No sun could now amend.
Your voice I feel upon me now—command me if you may.
Silhouette, whose honor is in death, become me;
Your somber spell I now commend.
So to hope we cast in ruins, as is the fate of fallen minds.
What was of me—do not send.
What you seek—you will not find.
Silhouette, whose angst I cannot cleanse, become me;
My tattered body I dare not mend.
I need not imagine your hallowed condemnation—
The hollow halls I now attend.
For who more to blame, I confess, than my mind—the creation?
Silhouette, who better to be, so become me;
Or so, as you have, you will try.
I have seen your embrace, in much greater men—
To falter, so means I will die.
Cast away, au chante, I’ll be waiting;
Your name, once a secret, I’ve found.
It is you who should fear—I’ll be waiting.
Until you descend on my soul once again.