I met another man, some years ago.
He lay still, sleeping in a bed of grass;
was frozen and fragile, like human glass;
a lone body dying in a meadow.
I found and took the man under my wing
and little did I know back then that I
would grow accustomed to his presence. Why,
his company sowed in me a longing!

Is this the start of love and feelings new?
Oh, how much I've gotten used to his voice
that silence feels empty and cold again.
It can't be love; oh no, it can't be true!
This man is with me here not out of choice.
Yet when I'm with him, why am I warm then?