If winds should strike down every tree

and fire ravage all the few

left standing, still their shade would be

retained, though broken to it's knee

and x-rayed, blazing, broken through

in photographic memory.

When him you love's no longer me,

and I have long forgotten you,

our naked shadows still will see

our broken tounges scream out the key

of all the things we hoped to do,

but never managed to achieve.

And prophet-eyes that can foresee

the solar-winds of ultra-blue

extinguish all our memory

look inward to see you and me,

in sockets burned and blazing through,

where everything will allways be,

though winds should strike down every tree.