This is what we are left:
The aroma of a song,
The inevitable, the longing
And the quick, sweet rush of pain,
The sounds, the empty gain
Of space we cannot fill.
The utter, awful thrill
Of death. We wring our hands,
We kneel, we weep, we stand,
We conquer darkness; we endure
And carry home this lonely cure
We found too late: The star expired.
We would go too, but we are tired.