I want to see the moon, but I am shackled in my house.
It's the garden where the pink lotus has worn out.
It's the mirror, just shows my heart going down.
It's in the bed, holding my tears tightly bound.
It was the light, which seldom shone; without a wound.
It was the life, in which I wore a bloodless crown.
But it was the death, in which I wore off a bloodful gown.
It was the jewels, which reflected all the clowns,
fighting for a shackled town.
It will be the sweat of all the widows on the ground.
And the giggling voices and tiny feet stamp with a little sound.
But it has to become a place people seeking help for lotus's wound.
A place, where mirrors are redecorated and painted with beautiful clouds.
A bed where a small family of three is found.
With lights shining, filling all the dark abyss down.