On voice of narcissism,
deep the words do sting,
to hear the prideless beckon,
to touch the troubled dream.

Deep a river runs,
deep a river lies
of the sounds a lover croons
when the nightingale flies!

Swift the match is burned,
scarred, the torchlight fell,
for the remnants of the art
become the remnants of the shell.

Deep a river runs,
deep a river lies
of the sounds a lover croons
when the nightingale cries!

Spread on legs of charity
at the bottom of a river,
where the dagger rips the willow,
lies the anguish of the giver.

Deep a river runs,
deep a river lies
of the sounds a lover croons
when the nightingale dies!