Why can't the Sun rear up in the night,
monsterous and the more of a nightmare for being real?
Why cant the crocuses break the silence, like a fanfare
in brass, painfully out of tune?
Why can't I let go of her hand?

Will the audience take to the stage; dramatic,
democratic, and ruining the play?
Will ghosts walk through walls; everyone
we have hurt, or cheated, or laughed at?
Why can't I let go of her hand?

Why can't the wine grow slowly stronger, 
through bewildering spirit to bloody poison?
Why can't the starlight turn back; the farmer
unplough the fields; and all of us stock-still in a frame?
Why can't I let go of her hand?

Carefully, he'll communicate to us
what he doesn't understand.
Maybe, we'll help him through a time 
when there is nothing we can do.
And he will let go of her hand.