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In fleeting days, you spoke of rememberance

Clinging to a dream of wavering sunlight

Of a childlike faith in the light of heaven

Chorus:

Processions to the grave

The stages of dismay

Cross marches you benight

Until borne away to tombs of white

With tire and toil I till the soil

Interring seeds deep within the garden where reapers harvest our fate

We beseech ye, gathered here today

In reverent florumns we pray

And though flowers may rain upon you

They soon dissolve, seeping into the soil

Enshrining the final stage

A withered hand and a fading pen etches its final words

Recounting movements of letters long since burned

Now tears of stone do statues weep

The fountains of grief from which I fill my glass in toast to those who lie deep

Forever enveloped by unknowing.