This is the ending foretold
By so many prophets before.
The shiny and glimmering gold
Has turned into mouldering straw.

They said that the land of the rose
Would drawn into poisonous grass,
But no one would ever suppose
That prophets have talked about us.

They gave as the signs on the sky
To prevent us from loving that strong,
Our feeling was born by a lie.
It was already terribly wrong.

They have written us spells on the sea
But we never have bothered to read.
And we're here: tired you, lonely me,
Face to face with the things that we did.