Sixty Days

Sixty days without the sky,
sixty nights in irons.
I cling to the hope I will not die
until I hear your voice again,
before I touch your soft white skin,
until I feel your lips.

I never lived before that night
and never will again.
I fell from grace to lie on stone,
where deathly nitre takes my breath
and comfort is the dying moan
of other men in chains.

Bread and water waste my flesh,
I live on your sweet love.
Now abandoned in this tomb,
no mercy shown by man or God,
our passion bears a heavy cost
I'll settle with my life.

Only you can bring me hope,
a single breath the key.
The sweetest kiss and I live my love,
or my blood runs for you
on the cold guillotine,
our love on the cold guillotine.