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The hour is growing late,
So meet me in the usual place
With the sun upon your face
And the moon upon mine.

There is no snow in the mountains
So meet me in the usual place.
I will read the bones aloud,
The river is so chill here.

I walk this road often without you,
Wondering at all the passions buried here,
All the memories faded in the rain—

Come with me to the bones of Mr. Veil,
I like to think of him as an old friend
The flowers I brought him have grown stale.
All the people resting around our footfall,
Let's see if we can find our names among the stones.

Paper kites with their little lights
Falling into the grass.
Let us read burial rites and sing of old days
Of chill nights and parting of the ways.

Here Lies Wounded a Touch Awaiting its Kiss.
I've been leaving blooms here for years
With the moon in my face and the sun in thine,
This marker some day shall be mine.