This lake; these lands I stand upon,
Have and age - an epoch that can't be known.
They bear ancient names;
The only remnants of those here before.
I like to think that the ravens who come,
Bear their wayward souls back to this land they called home.
But likely these are only ravens,
And nothing more.
I like to think that every raindrop that falls here,
Are their tears returning home - that they may weep no more.
But likely they are only raindrops,
And nothing more.
I like to think after I yield forth my last breath,
That my spirit will join those ancient ones,
In song to our beloved mountains.
But likely that day,
We shall all be dust,
And nothing more.