In old broken wooden chairs,
By windows towards grey void plains
Spiders webs now cling round
Legs 'neath our sits here

And cracks make these thrones unsteady
In that old wooden chair
And that clock on the wall
Pending for a call to make
Or one to take

One that still remembered,
More than he had left to make memory
Of reading of news now old and very forgotten
Watching dawns over neverending,
Cold dead land

No! Is it really so?
That clock still pendles on
So hear now how?
In our minds it rings for noon

It's midday for the memory of those now dead
Life's spring of what is immortal
And that shall live with them
Oh, what an epitaph!

One that still remembered,
More than he had left to make memory
Of reading of news now old and very forgotten
Watching dawns over neverending,
Cold dead land

They sadly all were too seldom,
Yet with an echo of times gone by
Speaking in creaky sounds in this old chair,
Where once sat breathing men

One that still remembered,
More than he had left to make memory
Of reading of news now old and very forgotten
Watching dawns over neverending,
Cold dead land