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After all the jacks are in their boxes |
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And the clowns have all gone to bed |
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You can hear happiness |
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Staggering on down street |
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Footprints dressed in red |
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And the wind whispers Mary |
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A broom is drearily sweeping |
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Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life |
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Somewhere a Queen is weeping |
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Somewhere a King has no wife |
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And the wind it cries Mary |
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The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow |
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And shine their emptiness down on my bed |
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The tiny island sags downstream |
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'Cause the life they'd lived is dead |
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And the wind screams Mary |
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Will the wind ever remember |
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The names it has blown in the past |
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And with this crutch, its old age and its wisdom |
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It whispers "No, this will be the last" |
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And the wind cries Mary |
