There have been things said And done Which have been drawn into the measurements Of teaspoons before noon. And as I pace To and fro I wonder, wonder, of long ago. Before my arms grew sickly thin And I was not so chilled by the wind. And yes the things done Have been weight by the wieght of ten thousand more. And all I hear, is nothing, Just silence at my door.
I was young once. As all men are. And I loved once, Loved I say And nothing more. But where did the days go? Where did they flee to? As the were dragged off In the callings of the moon. And who am I to rage at fate? Where does this road lead, And what does wait At its end.
So in the sum of ten million tears That have been drawn out in historic years Wherein the greatness of all me Is measured In the table spoons of our times And the forks and knives pass to and fro Pass to and fro. Should I be one to wait patiently, Oh so quietly While the young me die? And I, oh I, grow sickly thing with a brittle grin. Where does it end?
I wonder, wonder, of long ago. Before my arms grew sickly thin And I was not so chilled by the wind. And yes the things done Have been weight by the wieght of ten thousand more. And all I hear, is nothing, Just silence at my door.
