When all the streams have run their course
Down from the mountains and through the forests
Song birds will turn to weep again.
Trees have gone, meddows are few.
It seems there's little left to do
but dream of times that we know could have been.
You'll see yourself and you'll find
That what you've seen is just your mind
Running from the madness and the lies.
A gentle darkness fills our breath
and taints what good there is left
until there's nowhere we can turn to hide.
Simple answers are lost; unfound
Burried darkly beneath the ground
And yet somehow we’re supposed to know.
The snow melts, The Rain has fallen
Time has passed, and Night has risen
Nothing yet grasps the precious will to grow.
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