In old broken wooden chairs

By windows towards grey void plains

Spiders webs now cling round

Legs 'neath our sits here

And cracks make these thrones unsteady

In that old wooden chair

And that clock on the wall

Pending for a call to make

Or one to take

One that still remembered

More than he had left to make memory

Of reading of news now old and very forgotten

Watching dawns over neverending

Cold dead land

No! Is it really so?

That clock still pendles on

So hear now how?

In our minds it rings for noon

It's midday for the memory of those now dead

Life's spring of what is immortal

And that shall live with them

Oh, what an epitaph!

One that still remembered

More than he had left to make memory

Of reading of news now old and very forgotten

Watching dawns over neverending

Cold dead land

They sadly all were too seldom

Yet with an echo of times gone by

Speaking in creaky sounds in this old chair

Where once sat breathing men

One that still remembered

More than he had left to make memory

Of reading of news now old and very forgotten

Watching dawns over neverending

Cold dead land