The autumn turns to gold and green,
The winter stays at bay,
There’s mist upon the meadowside,
And breeze to kiss the day;
There’s music in his very soul,
His senses sharp and keen —
He sees, and knows the world seems right,
But what does it all mean?
He heard her crying in the night,
But it was just a dream,
Or maybe a re-living of
Some long-forgotten scene;
There’s sorrow in his very soul,
A ghost in the machine —
He feels and hears her echoed call,
But what does it all mean?
Perhaps each moment, wrong and right,
Are meant for and hope and guessing;
Perhaps we cannot know the scope
Of every curse, or blessing —
And maybe we are meant to stay
Upon the edge, the brink —
But dreams and autumn scream the truth,
It’s just not what
We think
