Here I stand on the ***** of my feet,
Watching as the time passes by.
The day fulfilling the dreamers,
The night exhausting the lost.
Why must I move on?
Why must I go?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

Here I sit under a stately willow tree,
Accompanying me with its hospitality.
It droops as it stands so mighty,
It rises as it slumps in humility.
Why must the tree persist?
Why must the tree grow?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

Here I lie in a box of plastered wooden veneer,
My eyes encumbered by pitchy darkness.
I breathe my gratitude of this quietus,
I cry my despair for my own creation.
Why must I wallow in my regret?
Why must I now feel this woe?
Now I know.
Now I know.