Though the Rose is dead, the scent lingers
The valley is empty of singers
The white garden is cracked inside
The green vine is leaning on its side
To sleep
To sleep.

The hollow hand of the lake is dry
And a wicked moon smiles in the sky
Yellow roses and red roses die
And the white roses in the vase die
Shall I cry
Shall I cry?

I am a ghost gathering dead grass
Watching shadows' fingers as they pass
Tell me, between the rushes' dreaming
Are the red,red roses leaving?
Tell me
Tell me.