Winter comes hunting like a wolf on the wind, and the lovers lie unknowing in their beds. It won't be long before the cold and the snow kill off the flowering armies that summer's led. You dig for your last smoke as the highway leads you home, and this day's going down in a flame. And evening is a reminder of the beauty of the end and that the end might be the reason why we came. Night's handing silence to the hillsides where you walk, but you want that deeper silence that stays up in them hills. The field is a lover with her colors at your knees but you know there are stranger flowers still. And somehow you tell yourself that, like a rain could: "I'll be back again." But as you pull up to your house you know that you can't go in...Until the day burns down. We live the long walk of a question, my friends. I think about my sister out in the rain; and all the heroes I know that she'll never find, and that she'll never leave as perfect as she came. My mind is a symphony in the dark and my heart is an old museum with all of these memories that I keep. I got to get back to where the sun raised the flowers and the flowers they raise me. And somehow you tell yourself that, like a rain cloud: "I'll be back again." But as you pull up to your house you know that you can't go in...Until the day burns down. If I could hang the stars up, I'd hang 'em up one by one, to leave this world with something my hands made. And when that sun came up and made 'em all disappear I'd know my work was real, because nothing real can stay.