I lost what I loved most dear
In a moment long ago but always near.
and in my loving and my hating
and my killing and my creating
I am broken by my attempts and my tries.

I dreamt of an owl as a child
who sang of all the violence in the wild
"what a loving gift is death,
that long and pleasant rest"
and I never dreamt again.

I went to see a priest who lay in bed
The nurse adjusts the pillow behind his head
and he whimpered as he prayed
a demand to be saved
and he begged me not to leave his side

This bridge over this river is made of stone
each hand that built it felt lost and alone
some simply carried on
some jumped to escape the dawn
because they lost
what they loved most dear.