Mother tell me the story again
Of how I came to have no friends
And Summer dried the rivers
Of your eyes
And as crimson bled to blue
Trees eclipsed by a faint-spring dew
Bend hunch-double to
kiss the ground

I suppose it’s true what they say
The dead stay silent and we must wait

Winter’s breathe takes those who can’t run
Last night it took a Reverend’s son
And left the rest of us
behind
Autumn leaves hastily bury cars
A fitting grave for fallen stars
A flickering fail
of candle light

I suppose it’s true what they say
The dead stay silent and we must wait