the turning circle of the years

is so set up that we must fail

must fall into the grinding gears



give up and go with one last wail

lift up our eyes and see our friends

heads bent with tears and then set sail



there's no great purpose that commends

itself to us no message sent

in the pale wintry light that bends



upon our heads and won't relent

lying on the floor in solemn bars

where the sole word is discontent



at night the clouds will hide bright stars