He lies quiet now in the nothing

And there is no epitaph, no stone

Yet his legacy flows

Like a river

Walker of barren paths, seer of night

Friend of shadows, a carrier of light

And his legacy flows

Like a river from ice

The hungry heart opens

And drinks from this fountain

So cold

There are no promises

In his solitary grave

There is no salvation

Only words

But what then are these precious streams of coldness from the heights?

They will never reach the fields below

What is this silent grave to those who never sought to find it?

What is greatness to the dead?

To the dead

And his legacy flows

Like a river from ice

The hungry heart opens

And drinks from this fountain

So cold