Night came on, and so I thought that a fly buzzed in the silence
I thought that it could be, but I realized that silence is a tree

It is golden, so they say, it demands of itself that much
I do concur, however, where is the gold when it's needed most?
Drunken men, they need the gold for their gullet of old
We all need the gold, to bleat like sheep, satisfying our greedy souls

Wandering farther into the abysmal wood, I thought I heard a sigh
I sought it out, I gasped at the evidence that a tree had died

If a tree can sigh, I wondered, can it not have eyes?
I pondered a long while, but I realized that eyes cannot sigh
Just like a clock, that winds and winds, the soul will never die
And so our eyes, as odd as it may seem, are the cherubim of Man's eternal dream

Wondering further into this mask of thine, I saw a face in my mind
It taught me the philosophy of the hare, it told me what is written down there

With a sense of mind, and a little drop of wine, do what you will and cherish this time
The hare is serene, much like a lucid dream, follow his footsteps and see what I mean
What is this strange manifestation I now hear in my ear, is it a world thoughtful and queer?
I also pondered on this for quite awhile, until I realized that it was the hare

Day came on, and so I thought that a melody played in the distance
I came to the end of the abysmal wood, only to find a figure in spectral hood
With a flute the melody did sweetly sing, of the wood which wondering only brings
And another thought came to thine head, one last true thought, is this how it is to be dead?