Gone, the thought of a lover
Gone, the heavy wind in autumn
Gone, the touch and the heavy heart
Gone, the sound of their laughter
Gone, like the sun on a cloudy day
Gone, like the dear one when dawn to dusk
That kind of gone, one day
We’ll be that kind of gone
—flowering as shadows
You say: "Everything goes
back to the dirt, back to soil, back to life"
Gone, still cut from the same cloth
Gone, and used for the mess made by
“Time is a living thing,” you say
Well, so is death
A thin line between the living
and those who have passed away
back to the dirt, back to soil, back to life
Gone, the waking at cockcrow
Gone, the thought and the blood flow
Gone, the worry, the woe
Gone, your part in the moment