A hitchhiker on an ended road,
Trees and mountains fall and fold,
Rivers, streams and sky are sold
Everything once young; must turn old

It is not sweet, it is not happy
There are tears, there are many.
From the road I wish to carry
Many things, but I can’t bring any,

Everything from here is out of sight,
It may be black or blinding light,
It might be weak, it might be might,
Or just a break, or the end

All the people I didn’t love enough,
Have vanished now in a puff,
When I need them more than blood and guts,
They I cannot see or hope to touch