If we may stop you,
Are we alone when we die?
And are we easily shot out of the night
Like billowing butterflies?
Battered and shot
Bruised and bought
By our headmasters

All this fear of the stronger
Are we not like mites?
And will we easily blame our fright
When we burn from the light?
Holding our clots
Proud, all for nought
As time grows faster

In the dawn’s old hue,
Will we sigh when we sleep?
Or is there no rest after the leap
Beyond the deep?
There is nothing to hold
For rust and gold
Are all the same in the rapture

Must we run much longer
Away from the keep?
If time keeps us under its sweep,
Is living terribly cheap?
We’ll burn to spite the cold
Despite not being told
Beneath the ice, was a pasture

With trees holding the fruit
Of our untold labours
Now, dried from the pursuit
Of the trunk's ashen paper