There’s a little girl laid
In the grave on the hill.
She’s sweet and she’s hollow,
She is silent and still.
I came with these flowers;
They are purple and red.
They’re much like the flowers
That are wrapped round her head.
By now they are dripping,
And have faded and died.
I’ve tried to forget her—
I have tried and I’ve tried.
But she’s like the flowers:
She has faded and died.
Our sorrow still lingers;
And our tears aren’t yet dried.
But what can they tell us,
We who lie here and weep?
We who live amongst tombs,
And find refuge in sleep.
For we are the liars,
The unwanted and damned.
Loyalty means nothing;
We give way like the sand.
Though I’ve brought these flowers—
They are purple and red.
I can’t stop the bleeding truth:
She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.
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