Just past the places where we used to walk,
Along the shore as evening fell in grace,
There're still the echoes of our murmured talk
And palm tree shadows once that touched your face.

For dark though grows the water off the dock,
And weary grows the heart that wonders why,
Just past the places where we used to walk,
What's left of fire, turned to mist and sky

Spreads out with eagle's wings upon the thought
That once, there was a different kind of song,
And with the joy, the movement that it brought,
Was agony we still sought to prolong.

 It is a fact, though: true and somewhat sad,
 What doesn't kill us makes us wish it had