From passioned flames, a love is born
Of hopes and dreams and trust,
And when it dies, where does one mourn
When love returns to dust?

For death is death and loss is loss
And somewhere in between,
The death of love will bear no cross
And no grave to be seen

No upturned soil, no marble stone,
No polished box of pine;
No slow procession through the town,
No solemn church-bell chimes

All lovers need a place to cry,
To lay a solemn wreath;
Somewhere to say a last goodbye,
To overcome their grief