Down the hill, up the mountain
Across the sky, over the stars,
Within the grass, inside the puddle,
Lies my father, Lies my mother,
Whom I saw,
A thousand times before,
Before the great war came,
And tore the pages of my dream,
Of seeing them for the first time every morning,
Now there is no morning,
And no night,
Only grey and grey and grey,
Raining without the smell of monsoon,
Only a smell of despair,
Only a smell of hate,
A reverb of a thousand cries,
Penetrating my dough-like soul,
And shattered eyes,
Of the images of my lost father,
Of my lost mother,
Whom I saw,
A thousand times before.