our faces fall
into the rising of a tall silk wall
so play your tune
in the red burning room
play it young man
the ending of a black moon
is only the beginning
of the children picking flowers
in fields of dreams as tall as towers

soft faces burnt like leather gloves
lungs full of hot white doves
its said the summer of love
so wont you gather around
the coals are burning down
and strangers we are in this town
searching for what few have found