We have no choice but to destroy, Every note, And every prototype and every page, With every pen related to, To our words. Though it will surely cost us all - All our thoughts, Though it would only say we're sorry... All evidence was sent to torch - By our pain. And that seemed like a bit of sky that night. Most of us saw the springtime stars, By the lot. And afterwards we had to tell - Tell ourselves, That certain plans have secret endings... We fleeted back to listening. See reason; We have created this expensive mess. The laughing voice was deafening - Who could know? Well there's our letter send it now. What wonders? What will we have then to remember?