A still breeze, and trees
like empty cities.
Fallen leaves on the ground.
Ill pleased and brown,
their crumpled effigies
resound...
...Turn around, turn around.
Right around,
right around.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now.
No sound, no sound, not now, not now.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now...
A still breeze and trees grieve
in street cemeteries.
No sound, no sound,
no sound echoes now.