Cross the woods of Pharapark,
Emily walked-in hypnotized,
Hurriedly like an injured hyena,
Holding the only book she would enchant,
So that her dearth could come,
Timely and slowly before long,
Who killed her psyche?
The man who put off beads of trust,
Round her neck,
All this native people,
And their Lobola in acceptance,
Than a young fellow id old enough,
To marry the princess of Sarajevo,
Now that she has been denied,
Who will bell the cart?
Who has the guys to tell her,
I'm sorry.¹
If that's all she cared about,
Softens her heart to a new hope,
Let me play the folly,
So that Emily pay the price,
The ultimate price,
In the woods of Pharapark,
Before she reads that book,
Making the words count,
Like an officers reading the sacrament,
During the Holocaust,
Which claimed the lives of many innocent,
People who have need for a new life,
Carried into an iced region,
Survival is scarce,
The only means is to close one's eyes,
And say they ultimate statement,
I'm sorry!²
She opened the enchantment book,
Read the first line of seven,
Just then he appeared,
Kneeling like a scavenger,
Who aimed at digging the crust,
To fetch from the debris,
An unrefined gold,
Which men with fore-eyes may not see,
Emily stopped at looked,
Who could have come this far for me?
Is it true that love exists?
Does true love cure the incurable?
He looked her in the eye,
Then said the healing words,
I'm sorry!³
To her burning heart.