Will you grow weary of the sun, my friend
When the dead are buried and the morning's done?
When the graves are dug and filled
When the morning's slow light
Lifts over the horizon

And we, the living, can say, happily
We have buried our dead
With ceremony
They are not forgotten
For a while
We wall up our sadness
And move on.

A new bathroom
A new patio
Redesigning the garden
A better house
A holiday planned in Belize

And the sun goes down
And comes up again
And it's normal.
Will you grow weary of the sun, my friend
When the dead are buried and the morning's done?