We are the widows of the winter 
to whom no spring shall ever dawn 
We are a window to the future 
The morrow's first polluted yawn 

We are a dowry to destruction 
In all the shouting we shall drown 
We are the shadows of the good times 
We are the echo, not the sound 

Indolent we promenade across the page 
Redolent of meaning lost and gone 
Strewn about the airwaves of this new dark age 
Still without our substance carry on 

We are the widows 
We the words