There is a song of dying moments
I refused to sing with you,

a song of waning and of passing;
themes most common to all men,
but then the winds rose
blowing strongly,
and my fledgling faith was shaken,
oh my faith was badly shaken,
badly shaken by the wind.

In the middle of the gale
amid the storm of memories,
you came to me,
a small, brave lighter
with a fierce, exciting flame,

but the winds of yesterday
are much more cunning,
more conspiring,
and they snuffed the magic out,
oh how they snuffed that
little fire,
and how they howled their victory.

All that's left
is dry and dusty,
in this river's barren graveyard.

There I walk, and there I think,
how quickly does this river die!

There is no magic, no more rain,
there are no songbirds,
no more sparrows,
all is martian red and dry;
there are no rain clouds in the sky.