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Walking down the street,
wondering what is and what will never be,
the sun's setting in the mountains,
it seems as though the rays will never again cleanse me.

Screwed from the start,
the race was already lost,
though they say that there is no race,
they still try to win it at any cost.

The sun was brighter yesteryear,
the air now seems much less clear,
the once-clean water is lethal to the touch,
the wind was once less harsh and the sun's glare once didn't blind you as much.

Why must the journey be so tough with no memories for your troubles,
why must it seem like the world hates itself and would rather everyone be dead,
why must the falling rain feel like droplets of searing acid,
why must the hill be so steep and our legs feel like lead?

In the end, does it matter what we've done,
when, like a sand castle, time washes everything away,
does it matter how much turmoil you've been through,
when tomorrow, nobody will remember today?

And yet we walk,
and yet we talk,
and yet we go,
and yet we show,
that everyday, we continue to live,
like there won't be a tommorrow,
and yet we continue to live,
like there will always be a tommorrow,
and what happens when we leave,
does life live or will it die,
does it really matter in the end,
does it matter if we try?

And yet the sun shines,
bathing the world in its warming glow,
in the end, just one light among a seeming infinite,
with years growing shorter and days moving along so slow.

Will there be a tomorrow,
will there be rain or shine,
will the world seem to shrink or grow,
will everything turn out fine,
will we all breath one more breathe,
will we find the sun shining again,
will the streets be filled with death,
will you be even told what to do, where, and when?

Will this meeting be our last,
or will we meet again after fifteen years have past,
and after that, where would we go,
in the end, nobody ever knows.