| Now that fires have been contained | |
| These ashes are of our own making, | |
| Clouds hang up on radio towers | |
| And sirens sing one song for hours | |
| Here begins the fitting end | |
| To what we'd started over | |
| When tomorrow is October | |
| Tomorrow is October | |
| A masquerade of civility | |
| Had stood the test of time of me: | |
| I kept the faith and hid behind | |
| Whatever parade was cheering mine | |
| But circus wheels leave muddy fields, | |
| The flowers trampled over | |
| When tomorrow is October | |
| Tomorrow is October | |
| The scrubby hills flash their teeth | |
| All iron will and disbelief. | |
| I move to rise, but as soon | |
| Here's that first dark afternoon; | |
| Cold and golden, cross and scolding even | |
| Angels who lord over | |
| When tomorrow is October | |
| Tomorrow is October | |
| Tomorrow is October |
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