We are the widows of the winter

to whom no spring shall ever dawn

We are a window to the future

The morrow's first polluted yawn

We are a dowry to destruction

In all the shouting we shall drown

We are the shadows of the good times

We are the echo, not the sound

Indolent we promenade across the page

Redolent of meaning lost and gone

Strewn about the airwaves of this new dark age

Still without our substance carry on

We are the widows

We the words