The pencil on the table Your face is in my mind The way youre looking to me Gave birth to the dead inside Yet the pencil is silent There is only the will To draw the curves of your face To feel your skin. I saw you in my dreams. It was so clear and pure. And here you shine again. The only dream I had Is the one I shared with you. The others I forgot, The wind tarred them apart And the dream lifted me up Waked the artist inside. The pencil kissed the paper So tender and so sweet Gave birth to those purest Stars anyone will ever meet. So charming and so warm The pearls were dropping down Giving life to those flowers, Blossoming all around. And on the paper it carved The traces of your soul, The wonders of your sorrow The sweetness of your faith. The pencil left the paper Yet there is more to draw No one should ever see it But in our hearts we know And on the edge of darkness It was cold beside you It was ever dead, yet It lived for seeing you. And on the paper its soul Was poured, beneath your tears. Yet on the paper it died, long time ago.