🎵 Luyện Nghe Bài Hát: Theatre of Tragedy - Cassandra

 Cassandra
 
 He  to her, yet tenfold claim'd in return -
 She hath no life but the one he  her wrought;
 Proffer'd to her  wauking heart - she turn'd it down,
 Riposted  a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.
 
 Prophetess  fond?,
 Tho' her parle of 
 "I ken to-morrow  refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the kiss and breath  Apollo's bane -
 Sëer of the future,  of twain,
 "Sicker!", quoth 
 
 Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a  divine? -
 A  fuell'd by his prest haughtiness -
 If he did grant, wherefore then did he not 
 Belike egal as it to him  be?!
 
  or fond?,
 Tho' her parle of 
 "I  to-morrow - refell me if ye can!",
 Yet the  and breath - Apollo's bane -
  of the future, not of twain,
  quoth Cassandra.
 
 'Or was he an  being,
 'Or was he weening - alack nay 
 Her naysay'  his heart,
  daffing was the grave of all hope -
  belied her own words,
 He thought  life, save moreo'er scourge,
 She held  august, yet wee;
 He left her ne'er  his heart.