| Fields of stone piled over the bones of the dead
|
| Every minute tries to still their sound
|
| Fields of stone piled over the bones of my friends
|
| But their words won’t join them in the ground
|
| Your name, your word, your verse, your world, not lost to the statuary
|
| Our chance, our hope, our love, our world, not lost to the statuary
|
| All of a life consigned to acclaim from a name
|
| «Sends a permanent shiver down my spine.» |
| *
|
| All of a life consigned to a chair, or a chain
|
| «Oh death… I’ve flirted with you all my life.» |
| **
|
| Fields of stone piled over the bones of my friends
|
| Their words still shake me with their sound
|
| Your name, your word, your verse, your world, not lost to the statuary
|
| Our chance, our hope, our love, our world, not lost to the statuary |