Pro-

ces-

sion

moves

on,

the

shou-

ting

is

o-

ver,

Praise

to

the

glo-

ry

of

loved

ones

now

gone.

Tal-

king

a-

loud

as

they

sit

round

their

tab-

les,

Scat-

te-

ring

flo-

wers

washed

down

by

the

rain.

Stood

by

the

gate

at

the

foot

of

the

gar-

den,

Watc-

hing

them

pass

like

clouds

in

the

sky,

Try

to

cry

out

in

the

heat

of

the

mo-

ment,

Pos-

sessed

by

a

fu-

ry

that

burns

from

in-

side.

Cry

like a

child,

though

these

years

make

me

ol-

der,

With

child-

ren

my

time

is

so

waste-

ful-

ly

spent,

A bur-

den

to

keep,

though

their

in-

ner

com-

mu-

nion,

Ac-

cept

like a

curse

an

un-

luc-

ky

deal.

Played

by

the

gate

at

the

foot

of

the

gar-

den,

My

view

stret-

ches

out

from

the

fence

to

the

wall,

No

words

could

exp-

lain,

no

ac-

tions

de-

ter-

mine,

Just

watc-

hing

the

trees

and

the

leaves

as

they

fall.