| Alone, I'll sit with your worry stone | |
| The grass still feathered with snow | |
| I'll ache my chest with your spirit's weight | |
| Travail | |
| And now, with frost in your eyes, you still feel fine | |
| You swear you don't mind the itch all the time | |
| From dawn until dusk, I sleep on the cusp | |
| I rot in the vines | |
| I wait for the day I've sung all my songs away | |
| The day I lift my spirit's weight | |
| The day I've sung all my songs away | |
| The day I drown in my own wake | |
| Alone, you clutch to your worry stone | |
| The pass has filled up with snow | |
| You ache your chest with my spirit's weight | |
| Travail, travail | |
| And now, with nothing but pride, you still keep dry | |
| You shut both your eyes to remember your mind | |
| From dawn until dusk, I sift through the dust | |
| I tumble through time | |
| I wait for the day I've set all my bones to fray | |
| The day I lift my spirit's weight | |
| The day I've sung all my songs away | |
| The day I drown in my own wake |
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