No encore for the sun today,
it disappeared too soon.
But she’ll be back to shine again,
tomorrow afternoon.

If in the end to dust—
we’re turned to be,
and that eternal silent film,
we’re forced to see,
let Old Man Winter,
in his robe,
lead us into the sea.

Only silence lasts forever,
this in the end we’ll know.
The world will be a silent place,
when our globe runs out of snow,
and has no God to shake it.

Even our golden candle Sol,
no longer will stay lit.
Down the sweet sun comes,
to shine;
overhead it leaves a golden line.
A streak of light, to sleep she goes,
taking the spotlight off our show.

If we again into the sea descend,
and as a balance between the worlds suspend—
how little time to balance on the line,
before the fisherman rolls us in.