I’ve always thought there is no death.
But dying, we’re quite a mess.
Of fires we dreamed, of love and glory, of gallant deeds and souls unbent.
But in my never-ending story, I never find you in the end.
I never find you in the sorrow of poisoned wells and silent graves,
And what is left? The endless morrow that comes, and goes, and never stays.
A leaf of maple reaches the bottom of cloudless sky that lies ahead.
Beyond the leagues of hills the autumn is dancing, happy, wild and red.
This sky is neither far nor near, a bird is cutting it apart.
It is so quiet that I can hear the grasses growing through my heart.