We have no choice but to destroy, Every note,
And every prototype and every page,
With every pen related to, To our words.
Though it will surely cost us all
- All our thoughts, Though it would only say we're sorry...
All evidence was sent to torch - By our pain.
And that seemed like a bit of sky that night.
Most of us saw the springtime stars, By the lot.
And afterwards we had to tell - Tell ourselves,
That certain plans have secret endings...
We fleeted back to listening. See reason;
We have created this expensive mess.
The laughing voice was deafening - Who could know?
Well there's our letter send it now.
What wonders?
What will we have then to remember?