The Hills are grey,
A bird flies over the sky.
A man looks onward.
Butterflies land on wilted flowers and dead trees.
All is lost that is not lost.
And all that is lost is still here.
A blue sky turned to grey,
And red, and black.
Men should be hung.
The rope is set for
Us to go there would be
Not afraid.

The drum beats ever faster.
The butterfly dies.
The man kills man kills man kills man kills man.
Are we there?

Orange. Citrus. Citrus. Yellow.
There is no one there, no matter what.
The hills are
Not going without
You there would be no
One is there.

The dead are dead, the living are dead.
The butterfly is the butterfly.
Nothing more?

Golden ponds and marble paths
Lie in wait.
Who? What? Who?
They lie in wait.

Oh Venus, deliver us.
Spring shall come.

Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon.
So soon it is for spring to come,
Until the passages of thy heart
Become no more than
Those passages of marble and
Ponds of gold.

Nothing is as it is for it is what it is not.