Withered hands scrape away the dirt
Never rising very far from the mirth
So speaks the weary poet
Crouching silently by the shore

Toiling thus a day closer to death
A greater good than I've ever met
So I shrink and forsake my purpose
Like a river drying further each day

Thrown back into the cold night
By the trembling hands of providence
So it goes for the weary traveler
Now reduced to a wandering fool

With our lives inscribed in the margins of stone
Will we rise above the flame of this funeral pyre
Place our ashes at the heart of this burial chamber
Our stories enshrined by the bleak solstice light

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