The messenger steals through the night halls,
  cloaked by anonymous shadow falls,
  silently, tasting the gray air.
 
  Mon-Cher', the Messenger dream/speaks
  as desperately he seeks the rapture of his beloved;
  to capture her essence in the presence of the night shades...
 
  Formless fears and needless tears etched upon the gray walls.
  Moonlit sighs of fireflies flirting 'round the gray halls.
  Streaks and streams of shadow dreams
  webbed throughout the Hospice halls.
 
  At last, the Messenger doth find his way;
  the room where his beloved lay
  her ravaged body, gray on gray,
  mocked illusion on display!
 
  He kneels beside her, there to pray.
 
  His vision truer than the night or day would tell.
  Then with the clocks of man at quell
  her spirit lifts above its shell
  so long a prisoner in its cell.
 
  And he, the Messenger, holds out his hand;
  white on gray the narrow band of light assists
  and merges with the waking dawn of timeless bliss,
  where scented roses linger on
  where only peaceful Love exists
  and all the shades of gray are gone...