We knew stories since we were young,
We've heard the songs that were sung,
About an evil lie.
Someone perfect is cursed,
Sadness echos through every verse,
Until a look into your eye.
There is something that no one can see,
And it's clearer to someone like me.
Oh and this man, beaten to his knees,
Visioning a world he alone can see,
This man shall be remembered.
Oh not with statues rhetoric,
Not with legends and poems,
And wreaths of bronze alone.
Only with love turned talk,
Something summery in your complexion,
And a rich autumn ripeness in your walk.
There's no curse nor evil spell
That's not one we gave ourselves
There is no sorcerer as cruel,
As the proud, angry fool.
And yet we cry "life isn't fair,"
Beneath our cries the truth is there.
We are strong and we are meek,
We are lovers and shovers,
In spite of ourselves.
The power that will break the spell,
We should know very well,
Is locked within ourselves.
When it is finally ours,
This beautiful terrible thing,
Needful to man as air,
You know I'll be there.
Smoothly cultivated ignorance,
Exquisitely learned self-hatred,
Elaborately designed hopelessness.
Yet we'd rather blame,
And curse out fate than change.
We run away to hide from the pain,
And all of the shame.
The story's old,
Oh I know it all too well.
About a wretched evil spell.
The power that will break this curse,
Is locked within myself.