作词 : Theatre of Tragedy
He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return -
 She hath no life but the one he for her wrought;
 Proffered to her his walking heart - she turned it down,
 Reposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.
 
 Prophetess or fond?,
 Though her parle of truth:
 "I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -
 S?er of the future, not of twain,
 "Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.
 
 Still, is she lief and quaint in his eye, a sight divine? -
 A mistress fueled by his prest haughtiness -
 If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee,
 Belike egal as it to him might be?!
 
 Prophetess or fond?,
 Though her parle of truth:
 "I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -
 S?er of the future, not of twain,
 "Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.
 
 'Or was he an eried being,
 'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;
 Her naysay' rought his heart,
 Her daffing was the grave of all hope -
 She belied her own words,
 He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge,
 She held him august, yet wee;
 He left her ne'er without his heart.
 
 Though her parle of truth:
 "I can tomorrow - refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane -
 S?er of the future, not of twain,
 "Sicker!", quoth Cassandra.
 
 'Or was he an eried being,
 'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;
 Her naysay' rought his heart,
 Her daffing was the grave of all hope -