One cold tuneless day,
A trickle of hope I thought I saw,
But it was only a drop of rain
Sliding down this glass pane.

Wondering where the nest note will come from,
I still sit, I still wait.
Wondering if I'll ever hear those melodies,
Those sweet melodies of yours past.

As I wipe the haze away form the window,
An endless battle against reappearance,
I strain to see, I strain to hear
Just one little note, a spark in the gray.

The only music I hear now
Is the hollow bong of a bell.
The only voice I wish to hear
Is silenced forever, condemned to dust.

Believe in me in my power to recall
A time when sunbeams raced along the leaves
Jumping to your rhythm.
All but a whisper of what it once was.

For now there is only silence.
The death of a musician is the silence.
The void is filled with noise
And tears that wash away the ink.

Without the warmth of the beat
My heart grows cold with the rain.
The cold of silence, the cold of loneliness,
The sheets blow away in the wind.