Testo Opus

The winter rains fell for seven weeks straight
And no one was sure it would ever abate
We took shelter indoors and awaited the sun
But weeks turned to years and the sun didn't come
It didn't come

How soft
Softly we turn Turn into dust
The faster that we burn

Now low lies the moon, its light fading fast
O'er faraway hills of cinnamon grass
As we dim into dusk, dissolve into past
We say, “Nothing good in this life is meant to last”
Could it ever last?

How soft
Softly we burn
Burn into dust
The faster that we turn