Weather Report, the Dead.
Winter rain, now tell me why, Summers fade, and roses die.
The answer came; the wind and rain.
Golden hills, now veiled in gray, Summer leaves have blown away
Now what remains? The wind and rain.
And like a desert spring, my lover comes and spreads her wings, Knowing,
Like a song that's born to soar the sky, Flowing,
Flowing 'til the waters all are dry, Growing, the loving in her eyes.