| Outside the rain keeps falling | |
| On foul soil, dying snow | |
| Melting and transforming | |
| to waters made of woe | |
| Grey clouds brewing idle | |
| the trees can not withstand | |
| What is dead and gone by | |
| is mixing with the sand... | |
| ...In the gutter of this spring | |
| Inside the days remain | |
| in a dim and lightless paint | |
| and with the naked branches | |
| the sun did not acquint | |
| What is dead and gone by | |
| and did not yet begin | |
| is flowing to my hand | |
| from the gutter of this spring |
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