to marble floors and echoing corridors,
my tongue can find no response.
though the shires and moors these shadows implore,
none knows exactly what it wants.

I still remember the gold of November
when the hour was getting late,
and despite the last of the timber, the last burning ember
still I stood there to wait.

and let it suffice to say it was nice
to think of holding you near
and rolling the dice as I fall through the ice:
nothing I ever should fear.

the skin of your soft hand a silent symphony
pressed against the window of a moving train.
watching the country side rolling by
as your tears fall like summer rain.

it was only yesterday you told me,
like those old songs you'd always sung,
how you wanted to live forever,
but please, let me die young.