We sin in the glade where once flowers sprung
The warmth in the air was completely our own
We frolicked under hidden stars
And sang about our eternity
Now the Glade sits empty, alas alone
Letting fun never happen until the very cusp of what it could become
What is this and where are we?
We sit alone and stare at the Dell
Where once there sat a wishing well
We'd flick our coins and listen to the sound
Of water hitting and hope splashing down
We tallied them in a book closed it and let it dissipate and sink
Empty hopes and little fallacies
Is there no hope for the dreamer's dreams?
Now the Sinners sit under the cold shadow of hills
And dream memories of the once great Dell
Where they put all their hope and their naïve fantasies
The hills look down and the gaze belittles
Of once was honesty and sharing
There is a now lies, of little bearing
Where once there was a glade that sat in passionate heat
Now lies a hill that makes it desolate and neat
what is this world of cold calculation?
and where are the Dells of divine absolution?
where is that one piece of personal heaven?