We are the widows of the winter To whom no spring shall ever dawn We are a window to the future The morrow's first polluted yawn
We are a dowry to destruction In all the shouting we shall drown We are the shadows of the good times We are the echo, not the sound
Indolent we promenade across the page Redolent of meaning lost and gone Strewn about the airwaves of this new dark age Still without our substance carry on