Is it I, who begs for privileges incomprehensible to thee?
Is it the moral truce based between thy hearts of blackening?
Is it thee, who pleads of privileges of incomprehensible solitude?
Nevertheless, I shall not despair the moment of your sweet grasps
For it is the truce that binds one of another
It is it. It –that of your heart- shall not deceive its blood
For it is the truce that binds us together...

Breathe, the breathe of thee, the mental serenity given
Just within the words spoken I am relieved –I am tranquil
For is it trust? Oh sacred trust that is forgotten by all
Nay... –not by thee- It is the feeling of trust that befouls them
You are trust; you are my belief to go on; to spread the word
That why I am indispensible and indestructible...

It is I, who words the truth to thee and to thy passion
Those burns of corruption surrounding us cannot be sparing thee?
I am within your sweet grasps of truce
I am breathing the breathe of trust
And I am saying the words of truth

You are nothing like a lie