This blood on my hands, doesn't go away.
The sins of acts past linger in hazy memories.
The pure water of deeds done good today,
Bloodied by a single drop of blood of history.

In the blithe joy back in those old days,
Didn't know a cut would grow into a wound.
Didn't realise that minds would be so fickle
Didn't know under the currents lay still waters.

Till I scrapped the surface and discovered
That the past was still alive, still breathing.
That the albatross was still around my neck
That the hearts, after all, were still bleeding.