Under your skin there is the real you,
A poem written by the finger of God,
Melody composed by the flame of his fire,
There is a person made out of mud.
Your love is a temple to my religion,
It is my church built with living bricks,
Under mask of illusion I see purity,
And spoken love by the faithful lips.
Your eyes always gently reveal,
The highway I should meekly embark,
You are the light to my dreams,
When days are cold, dreadful and dark.