When the sky turns golden
with the colors of a setting sun
let all be beholden
before the night is done.

When the grass starts to wither
and the frost nips your nose
He bids you, "Come hither!"
or as the saying goes.

The clip-clop of hooves that trot
on a paved cobbled road
Onward you ride, but all for naught
teary-eyed, lines toed.

Racing forth to outrun disaster,
there's nothing now, not even laughter,
the darkness rains, He yells 'Faster!"
trying in vain to chase after.

The dust has settled
She's gone on ahead,
Oh how long she has battled,
with the demons in her head