For in time's inevitable passing arth we to hear,
Noone's voice that of which had we grown fond,
When a'flamed hearts diminish to dust in the air,
And what lingering daggers are all passed gone,
Do we then sit alone, with nothing to share.

Let past funerals harbor sheltered lands - as we 'pon our wings,
For alas,  when grown accustomed to consistent pain,
Shall walls of immunity blossom with the Spring,
Let not no graceful tragedies of us die in vain,
Instead embrace what faded scenes and Nothing.