Another man lies dying,
his body growing colder;
his heart is beating slowly,
and no one hears it going.
He’s not old,
he’s not young,
just a man,
just a son,
and he’s here
—he is here—
and he’s dying.
Another lover’s leaving
—this world is growing colder—
and what’s left is moving slowly.
Where are we all going?
In this world
there’s a choice,
and we made
the wrong choice.
Now we’re here,
we are here,
and we’re leaving.
Another song is ending.
My muse is growing colder.
Yet I keep on writing slowly.
I know not where I’m going
But I write
every day,
and I’ll write
every way
just to find
—I will find—
the ending.
And I know,
yes I know,
It’s all vain,
it’s all show,
but I’ll write,
I will write,
‘til I’m dying.
Tale Told 