I keep thinking how strange it is,
That when we’re dead and long gone
Our memory will live.
In paper and words and stories we tell our kids.
Who will tell their kids about a dream
We once had?
Or the laughter we shared that pink and orange night,
sitting on top of the world
with wind blowing in our lungs,
And our souls mixing in swirls.
How strange that in centuries to come
our laughter will have gone,
our goals will be done.
The only memory will be letters we wrote to each other,
Or a postcard sent in the hope of one more get together.
And the nights we sat on the peak of the earth
with the stars forming letters we made up with words.
And just like the smoke from our crackling fire
one day we too will vanish and expire.