the wheels of the tumbril make a changeless grinding sound,
the cold bars of my prison cage with steel ring me round,
from without I see the thronging ever busy heedless crowd.
At the rains my shaddow sits,
With acrid hating epithets,
a poison that forever spits,
Into my cage.
We pass through wide paved plazas and groves of healthy trees,
We pass through crowded markits with exotic scented breeze,
We pass the marble buildings with their pretty artistries.
My shaddow gives a mocking smile,
torments me with cruel word and wile,
Shows me beauty and denile,
And fuels my rage.
I scan the see of faces looking for that special one,
she Who holds the gleaming keys and waits to take me home,
Away from my shaddows cruelty where I'll not feel so alone.
My shaddow breaths a harsh insult,
Reminds me that it's all my fault,
and rubs a pinch of scolding salt,
Into my pain.
The cart grinds slowly through the streets and ever grimly on,
Benieth the sky of deepest blue and brilliant golden sun,
through the lively coloured arteries of this alabasta town.
My shaddow cares not for the light,
for it can only feel spite,
And grimly it ignores the site,
flooding my cage.
I hear a floutists melody carried soft upon the air,
I see the warmth and happiness, which though I cannot share,
I can stil love for it's own sake as something free and rare.
My shaddow though can never love,
Nor can it ever feel warmth,
to torture me it's one relief,
From it's own lies.
And as we pass along the shore and the sun dips to the west,
and see and sky in firey gold make a glorious contest,
I know that of the two of us, I have got the best,
for my shaddow only wounds with words,
and though I can't deny it hurts,
I know my shaddow's never heard,
the golden music of life.