There is no purple in my berry.
The winter’s cold. It is not merry.
There is no song left still to sing.
The summer’s gone. There is no spring.

There is no colour in the sky.
There is no answer to the “why”.
A songbird sings. There are no notes.
The words we say don’t leave our throats.

And when we yearn, there’s no relief.
There may be faith. There’s no belief.
There is anger stirred up without cause,
For there is not what once there was.