I remember the sounds and the songs,
of November birds long gone.
I walk on a tune of some voice, all that I only here somehow,
while I wait for the clouds under my feet to fly,
I wait for the November birds and their songs.

I glitter on in dews on the grass,
I keep lying down with eyes closed on winter grass.
I see light dancing her way out on the surface of a glass,
I see myself whistling on in a sea of never ending grass.