You hear a faint little smear of a name

Wail in a wind far away,

But it’s still just so distant it’s not even there,

And so no angel strings play,

And the great powdered glacier moves slowly,

Laying a trail of nameless dust,

And as the trail itself soon grows nameless,

Softly, the leaves begin to rust,

And there are no new members in Cloudland,

And there are no new holes in the ground,

For when you took your life with that trusty old knife

Your soul didn’t make but a sound.