Where the grass grows long on the fading hills
And the breeze sneaks in early autumn chills
The poet stops to remember, remember
How the smoke burned soft in a lost September.
She was as young as a morning rose
And we climbed the ways where the tall grass grows
Where she told me to never forget, forget
That the best to come had not come yet.
Though we never sold out, and we never gave in,
We walked to an edge that we dared not leap;
Yeah, the world blows by and we find and find
That we always lose what we meant to keep —
Where the smoke passes swift in the aging sky
A thought can be born, and as swiftly, die,
Like the last glowing bit of an ember, an ember
That crumbles away like a lost