Crimson, crimson, dripping on the glass,
The macabre scarlet upon the grass,
Seeping, seeping, into the ground,
And from my Heart this blood doth pound.


Crimson, crimson, on the pane,
Place my cheek there--chilling bane.
Breathing, breathing, out comes Fog;
I thought my love could relieve the smog.
But my Love is Greed,
And to it I must heed,
This

Need, this Need,
This Torturous Need.

Crimson, crimson, on the Glass, the deathly Scarlet upon the grass,
Soaking, soaking, into the ground,
And from my heart this blood doth pound.
Place my palm upon the pane,
Chilling, chilling,
Is this warm bane.