On what use to be colorful.  
On what use to be sweet.
Oh how the setting sun bids us goodnight on the street..

The summer with you.
The fall away from you.
Come time the winter.
And the spring to see us true.

Its time to sing.
Its time to dance.
Its time to ride into the night.
Under the old moonlight.

I can hear your voices in the dark.
I can hear all of you talk.
I pass on by unseen.
As a ghost or phantom or perhaps a dream.

I wonder then is it all of you whom are
alive or is it simply us living in a dream.