A cold wind Blows outside, And the leaves Slowly fall to the Ground and Wild weeds grow In an empty car park.
While the skylarks Swirl under a grey Winter sky over Decaying city streets; Torn posters flap On brick walls, And the paint peels On closed wooden doors, And raindrops trickle Over rust patches On exposed pylons And bent poles.
The dust is thick On windowsills, And the window Shade is torn and Held together by Sticky tape, And tired eyes Stare out Of the corners Onto the wet Grey bitumen Streets, And the Memories Of the past Haunt the Present
The Skylarks Remain, And they Swirl silently Over the body Of a dead City.