Hard times might come, but soft is my lover´s hand
they tend to lay so heavy on, yet tender is her ways.
Dark is the skies creeping low, so she unveils the stars
as the battle rolls she drums us up, both near and far.

No shining armor has ever veiled her bosom fair
no heels of steel can trace and track her footsteps bare.
Hate attempts a coup d´état, she gards the throne.
In despair she shoulders yours, as her eyes ignites
a victory, so certain, that hate implodes, and quietly, goes.