the wind traps each in their own tiny room
blasts out the silence and makes all take stock
for in the morning we face one last doom

it was but yesterday we saw the bloom
pallid yet vibrant not a thing to mock
the wind traps each in their own tiny room

on this dark day when the only perfume
is bitter scent of ashes our knees lock
for in the morning we face one last doom

with no sun rising to relieve the gloom
nor to bring warmth to the hard barren rock
the wind traps each in their own tiny room

for hearts to harden and for minds to fume
while each lost traveller waits on the knock
for in the morning we face one last doom

the golden cradle will serve for a tomb
to learn that fact will not come as a shock
the wind traps each in their own tiny room
for in the morning we face one last doom