In the final hours
with all my toy dreams tattered
with all my singing scattered
out upon the wind...

And now the end will find me,
not prepared and strong the way i thought I was,
but thinking from the start now every cold I was,
as though it mattered now...

Bow the dying flowers,
sing and old song that haunts me,
and now nobody wants me,
all alone...

Lost between the last of summer's showers,
the are the final hours...