We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing

We Were All Born Of Flesh, In A Flare Of Pain. We Do Not Remember The Red Roots Whence We Rose, But We Know That We Rose And Walked, That After A While We Shall Lie Down Again.

How Shall We Praise The Magnificence Of The Dead, The Great Man Humbled, The Haughty Brought To Dust?

All Lovely Things Will Have An Ending, All Lovely Things Will Fade And Die; And Youth, That's Now So Bravely Spending, Will Beg A Penny By And By.

Come Back, True Love! Sweet Youth, Return!— But Time Goes On, And Will, Unheeding, Though Hands Will Reach, And Eyes Will Yearn, And The Wild Days Set True Hearts Bleeding.

Youth Yearns To Youth, Full Blood Loves Full Blood Only.