The days are coming when the days will end
the years draw near when the sun will set
And in the final hour of our lives
what dreams remain?
I was wandering through a village
when I realized no one was there.
The people had died long ago.
I had been walking with their ghosts.
I sailed to africa once, in a dream,
and I met many a stranger there.
Correspondence comes to me from them,
but I cannot read the writing.
We hope that our lives will be saved
from the fire and the frost and gale,
but we do not dream that a prison is safe.
There are no dreams in the prison.
Come fire, frost, and gale
tear down this sepulchure,
break through these prison walls,
and set us free.
Lord send the rain.
Tale Told 