Yet the little girl of the siberian land
Came to me, she had but one wet match left...
Her hands so blue from the icy lies
Of the chicken soup

I am true, I am through
Yes, little fairy girl,you leave me no choice
But to rip my heart open,
And give away the last warmth of my life

One day long, one night long
My heartbeat shall hold out,In the open
Till the end, I shall warm you
Little darling Brigitte...
Throw the match
In the fuel tank of their mundane charity..
While their snobbish snore counts
The chickens in the soup...
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copyrighted Rahman,Brigitte Arlette.