The winter rains fell for seven weeks straight

And no one was sure it would ever abate

We took shelter indoors and awaited the sun

But weeks turned to years and the sun didn't come

It didn't come

How soft

Softly we turn

Turn into dust

The faster that we burn

Now low lies the moon, its light fading fast

O'er faraway hills of cinnamon grass

As we dim into dusk, dissolve into past

We say, "Nothing good in this life is meant to last..."

Could it ever last?

How soft

Softly we burn

Burn into dust

The faster that we turn