The hounds of the graveyard are restless,
as the path of the cemetery looks treacherous.
The crosses of the grave stood tall,
as I walk among the dead tulips call.

The darkness resembles a long melancholy.
The bottle of whisky seems familiar to me,
as I step down from the stairs of the cemetery.
The fallen tulip meant nothing to me.

I remember my long lost past,
as the pensive sadness shackles my heart.
Now the meadows are all strange to me,
as we both walk now on fallen tulips call.