[words & music by Don Anderson]
As it snowed, the efforts of his toil gave in
To a white, crystal veil that blankets
the dead
Just as well, sometimes you couldn't look at them
Snow covered all and the harvest would dream again
He worked alone
and the ground was so frozen and cold
Later, many would be taken by his strength and vigor
But all the more by the interiors of
his psyche
And the craftsmanship of his labor
Time had granted many companions
Upheaved from the Earth, sometimes in pieces
Now assembled into a personal museum
Dust covered all and he would never be alone again
Can you not see the helplessness on
his face?
Condemn the man who was always alone
He was no more a ghoul, than a pathetic angel
Without a full appreciation of
what he had done
Can you not see the loneliness on his face
He's better off dead, he should have never been born
What now,
what can be done?
Burn the past and burn what could become