One morning soon, the orange dawn will break,
But I will not be here to see it so.
A lifetime: just so many stories then;
The one last journey on which all must go –
That day when there are no tomorrows left,
And memories are final in their form,
Before the years where even those fade out,
And nothing’s left of us – no hint of warm,
Nor anything we think makes up a life.
It’s all just so much chatter, so much noise:
No image left of living girls and boys,
But just the peaceful surface of the strife
That makes up what there truly is, at heart:
Just endings leaving no sign of