Where have all the voices gone? My head seems quieter somehow. Something's missing from my step, and the road to walk is more banal.
Where have all the voices gone? They always seemed to know the way. I'm walking with a thread bare map, of which debt I can't repay. They'll never take my word, my trust, it's shattered now, then held up high; the wind has scatterred fresh remains that hope may grow from what has died.
Where have all the voices gone, they supported much too long, their love and caring words fall mute, in penance left with dead refute. And in their ashen tracks I lay, to glimps their shadows, echos play. And in the night I dream the dreams of children frolicking unseen, avoiding light, and lost in sun drenched grass half dead, their hopes undone. They hear the epic poems summoned by pain and life and weep for those unseen, but heard as their time slows. Then shadows work small rites in verse, and meening slowly growing terse, their skeletons on scattered lawns ask where have all the voices gone.
And where have all the voices gone, I ask, I plead into the night. It answers more than all I need, and all my passions soon ignite into ashes, sombre pain as no one else is there to blame, for all I feel, the rock and hill is mine eternal to fulfill.
Where have all the voices gone, I make one desperate last attempt to find the missing elders and their children bread of discontent. And in the black that's left in me, in solace, pall of misery, they finally reveal fate - the ashes never leave my slate.