If miracle or merely magic
could turn the tide on truth too tragic,
I’d cross the separating sea
to find the girl who once loved me.
But true love’s torrents have run dry,
and sailing ‘neath this savage sky’s
hopeless, since traitors tore to pieces
our love, (those wolves with sheepish fleeces.)
With cruel assassins’ bitter blade,
they meant to murder, turn to shade,
so I’d glide ‘mong the graveyards grieving.
When I was broken, barely breathing
they wiped me from my sweetheart\'s mind,
my memory, to dust did grind.
Reduced me to pariah, pleading,
like Caesar, by that statue, bleeding.
If miracle or merely magic
could turn the tide on truth too tragic,
I’d cross the separating sea
to find the girl who once loved me.