• Of withered roses we had sung,
    Of grace decayed and fractured
    A head once proud now grey and hung,
    The rotting frames of structures.

    From sand and clay the gates were built,
    To them they now return
    Ashes from life, and life to silt
    With no-one left to mourn

    From memories of bygone glory
    The tales will soon be born
    Yet we were more than just a story
    'Till from our bodies we were torn