The Pen is dust The Paper's thin It clouds your lungs, It cuts your skin The night is long The moon is dead The mourners cry The ground's a bed The earth is dull The water's still The air is gray The looks can kill The people thrive Green is passion They march in pairs It believes the fashion The family's done The son is sick They pick him up He starts to kick We come back tired But I stay here cold The earth turns black The story folds