The hands on the hearts

Somebody said this spring's color is white, the white is the new black
I'd like to stain that white with red with your blood
'cause it's like a drug for me and it seals the tomb I've buried inside...
Once we felt, something in our hearts
We were burning, we are still burning
Warming our hands upon these hearts
Beating no more into the rhythm of our love
The hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love...
Somebody said this spring's color is red, the red is the new white...

Poet might say, when the flower is growing alone it should be withered before its first bloom
What if there's, no poetry in our lives anymore?
There is no art in our love anymore...
The paper is still empty, the canvas is still unpainted...
Life is like a manual for suicide
Heart is like a cemetery, deep inside
This story is ended before its first chapter is written
This story is ended and the first chapter is already forgotten
This night came in white, in black, in red
This night, the perfect bed for the one counting sheep
All this is ours while the world sleeps...

This night came in white, in black, in red
This night the perfect bed for the one counting sheep
All this is ours while the world sleeps...

Somebody said this spring's color is black, the black is the new red
I'd like to stay in night, 'cause it's like a drug for me and it seals the tomb I've buried inside.
Once we felt, something in our hearts
We were burning… we are still burning
Warming our hands upon these hearts
Beating no more into the rhythm of our love
The hearts beating no more into the rhythm of our love...
- This spring's color should be black.