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Hope is a dead thing to someone like me
She is the one bride that I would marry unlikely,
because I've seen what she is capable of
and all that is, is just attainable love

Hope puts on her feathers
and sings to you like siren, calling you to her
You rush to her like hungry beggars
assuming you find sense of satisfaction through her

But you might as well string up
to this thinner wire than hair
because hope can't bring up
something of despair to repair.
And long as we wear it to the feathers
the longer we keep the thin wire around our necks
we will not see the pleasure
that awaits us behind the wrecks