Our days have an end
And nothing's left, then;
No more gloried win,
No more secret sin.
What death leaves behind
Is a plundered mine;
A half-baked rhyme,
Like frozen time.
Our name fades away,
Like a perfect Fall day,
Like sunset's last ray;
The last words you say.
Our remains have a place,
And they come, to say grace-
But they can't see our face,
For there's left, not one trace.