Old ideas and these memories are like fish in a murky bay

Some swim to the top to get caught, others dive deeper as they twist away

Her answers were all questions, but I can’t remember now

Just what she tried to ask or what I tried to say

If we consider heaven now

What happens to our old bouquet?

Our time can be a gift that we squander by giving

And truth can be a mirror, an attempt to be free

Cynthia, you sang for me

The rusting bells they rang for me

Eclipses were the symptom

When that heartbreak was the cure

Cynthia, you came for me – strung to rocks you had named for me

A dream is a restless child, who cannot get away

If we consider heaven now, what happens to our best of times?

Our waves of rice, our rolling dice, the promise of a day?

Old ideas and these memories are like fish in a murky bay

Some swim to the top to get caught, others dive deeper as they twist away

If we consider heaven now, what happens to our best of times?

And whatever it was that always was, was never quite the same again.