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?