You hope the years to last,
I count the hours to pass,
in this prison of yours,
in this prison of ours.

May be one day you will open your eyes,
and the sky will be again bright, or
May be one day you will open your ears,
and I will be free at last.

If I was to tell you
how I miss you and hate you
in the same breath,
‘Cos
whether I speak with quiet words
or I am under a storm,
you still impassive,
in this prison of ours.