O, the language of caves is silence.
It's a tongue that everyone knows.
Cause when the soul's empty, a shout can't get out
Of the Cave of Winds That Can't Blow.

Some seek solace in the mine,
Where the treasure's elusive and clammy's the clime.
But a burial sought, fought, or welcomed in time,
Is a choice (on the surface) that's no choice, it's a sign.

And some of us read them, and some of us weep.
And some mourn the loss of the trove we can't keep.
Whether promise or treasure, we measure the pleasure
And count it the measure of a hole that's too deep.

But what's lost is the cost of the soul as it's tossed.
Whether digging down deeper, or climbing, it's steeper
To take in the measure of chasms we've crossed,

'Tween what lies on the surface,
And, if memory serves us,
What we've chosen that's frozen by choices we've made...
Or buried with ones that we've lost.