Call me a liar, say the truth is not in me,
for naked came my heart
from my mother's womb, and cold
it has grown with each exposure.

I die with each sunset and am born
on the morrow.

Hid within my shell, strong within
my fort,
I face the present.
Peering from my ramparts,
I seldom venture
to open those iron gates
and let loose my heart
to ramble.

I am old, the future hides
and I mourn the past.

A dirge plays in my heart.
I search from my watchtower,
lonely,
condemned to mortality.