Bastille, bestoweth such a death as one like the identity...
 To and from the gathered thoughts caressed by a whim.
 Does one exist parallel to I? Besides a forwarded line, divide.
 Shall I sing thy name,
To escape, to ignore those worries on thine windowpane?
 Reminisce all the nights you held me with words of woe, a voice so kind it scares me so-- that I might never know it again.
 Gathered by the lonesome time of strangers, love is reborn knowing my hand will not go un-held, forevermore...
 Not oceans away, but a fate nevertheless forwarded.
By God's power... Will I ever see you again?