• Dawn shows the silver smoke,
    the mist which before hid out of sight.
    It reveals the winding, twisting strands,
    tangling and twirling in the cool milky light.
    The soft fire seeps between the trees,
    tainting dewy cobwebs blood red.
    A gentle breeze sways leafless branches
    yet by them not a word is said.
    Dawn peaks the trees, drives shadows back
    yet still the world does not wake.
    The glassy surface of a river breaks,
    for when a single drop falls, all the world quakes.
    Ripples distort, the sun bends, branches fall
    and all once again is wrong.
    The sun goes cold, the world’s no longer gold,
    but the dawn never lasts very long.
    And so begins our lament.

    We call for the world as it used to be,
    full of wonders and peace and glee.
    We yearn for all that we once had,
    but never again shall be.
    For the sun is gone, the world is dead,
    the dawn has left for all time.
    It rose before, in other lands
    in places we thought would remain true.
    Yet every time a ripple came
    it doused our hopes anew.
    Will dawn give this world another chance,
    or have we gone a step too far?
    Every day we pray, we run the other way,
    but perhaps we’ve lost our star.
    Dawn may have passed away, and though we give chase,
    for redemption we’ve gone too far.
    And so we bring about our doom.

    The world is cold and dark and black,
    there’s no place left with light.
    We’ve seen this before, but the difference now
    is we shall not leave the night.
    We shall never return to light.