And tides are still the same as they were,
fluid numbers, one piece in folded milions,
telling us why we all need to reach the bottom,
embracing drops of broken brilliance.

Wait until it all comes down,
your whispers rest in front of the broken Avalon,
inside our shell is something we all found,
blue-red pictures reflected by the dawn.

And tides are still the same as they were,
connecting us briefly, connect you with my half,
tearing them apart until they are gone completely, 
nebulous remains of a shallow monograph.