Though no names are given; I don't own Final Fantasy VIII or any parts thereof. Nor do I own Martina McBride's Concrete Angel.
A little girl begotten of wealth and privilege. Such is not for her, nor for her family, dead with her mother long ago. Though this does not sadden her, for she would accept no like gifts from the man they called her father. Independence suits her, even at such a tender age.
She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Unallowed, unwilling to wield for herself the easement in life her very name would bring, as on her tongue it taste like poison, vile and anachronic. To use it would mean a life, a life like his own, a life of filing a punctured grail, indefinitely. Building her own name would be her cause for now. Independence suits her, the naïve sage.
Nobody knows what she's holding back
Mayhap the taste brought came by the blood in her mouth. How it flowed when he struck her, blood of stream and the blood of time. She could strike back herself. No bequest or endowment bequeathed would she accept, save for those of her mother. Even, nay; especially, those which she would work herself to see as a gift. Sewing was a gift to her. What required work was not a gift to him. She was not a gift.
Wearin' the same dress she wore yesterday
None outside would know. None outside could know. By command of one and by wish of another. Thus, all wounds were hidden in public, all knowledge cast away. The father acted not at all hurt by such an agreement. He entered his part of the bargain long before now. What could offer him naught but love was not a gift to him. She was not a gift.
She hides the bruises with linen and lace
Suspicions were bound to arise of the bright and fiery girl's origin and what else she could be hiding. Her classmates and instructor often wondered. The immense charm she developed almost erased any such musings. She made friends, many friends, but when surrounded by them she was alone. Independence suits her, beset of a frown.
The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
Moving helped to distance even her mind from her origins. Even the dearest companions she found in her new home could seldom see a hint of her sordid past, her cheerless present. Oppression embodied itself soon enough, in the form of tyranny, and her beloved town was no longer hers. She finds dreams though, one, a golden Adonais came to help her reach her others. So happy to try, so miserable to need to. For independence suits it, the quaint little town.
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask
Gold could not compliment her so well as was thought and she was sent to be enraptured by another, another solitary like herself. Except he was reticent where she was exuberant. Perhaps that was where the differences ended, perhaps not. Free from the clutches of her past and with a pleasant assistance to reach old dreams, the new Adonais cast her to be enraptured by a very wanton game for providence. Perhaps he was a gift.
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Literally to the reaches of space did he travel to save her. He did many times, from many things. However he could not intercept the transferred gift of a goddess and yet another hidden pain to accompany the misery of her past. The touch of magic came, as the touch of love, and of pain, and of betrothal to sorcery. Another secret to be kept hidden, another silent plague in her mind and soul. That which is thought to be evil, must be. Only a fool would consider it a gift.
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
But he promises after the end of what history had written of the affair, to protect her and the secrets she held. That he did. Together they stood firm against the scouring of the world and they were able to pursue a life and ambition. But the scrawlings of history and fate seldom matched each other.
Through the wind
And the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams
Give her wings
And she flies to a place
Where she's loved
Concrete angel
A Knight can only stand so long before a new day must dawn, and with it a destruction of yesterday. She did not wish to be so forgotten as this. Bereft of her contributions in this world by all its citizens, as were her husband's, and then he himself.
Somebody cries in the middle of the night
So powerful a warrior could not stave off the ravages of time and the destiny that entangled him so thoroughly for his entire life. She could only weep for him.
The neighbors hear but they turn out the lights
Magic was not all that was passed on with the transition of a sorceress, but the animosity of a populous. Was this too, begotten of 'divinity?'
A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate
None would ask the question while she lived.
When morning comes it'll be too late
Even with death she could not forget the promise. She was certain he could not either. While she had done much to try to change the world she was strangely content when it refused change, and chose to remove her from it, after she had changed. A tear down her eye, a knife in her back, a thought in her mind. As she could see in her dreams... He would be waiting there...
Through the wind
And the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams
Give her wings
And she flies to a place
Where she's loved
Concrete angel
In such a place as the world, those that had never forgotten her gathered...
A statue stands in a shaded place
Questioning whether it had been worth saving...
An angel girl with an upturned faceQuestioning any faith they may have had...
A name is written on a polished rock
But knowing that whatever creation had done to make them question the nature of the creator that there must certainly be a better place waiting for this angel apart. And that she would be there, waiting, given in the mute promise of her idol.
A broken heart that the world forgot
Independence suits her, even in death.
Through the wind
And the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams
Give her wings
And she flies to a place
Where she's loved
Concrete angel
She was a gift.