The hours pass slowly
in sorrow I sing
the ides of April
come w'out warning
Clotho my dear
cut the grey strand
the time has come
and the gods shall demand
a soul for the river
a whisper of old
the price of this life
is far more than gold
a grand procession is made
follow the heat from the fire
it will lead this parade
to the funeral pyre
then say goodbye softly
disturb not the calm
stifle your sobs
weep only the psalms