What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?