Please be my ears, come to me
I want you to know me
I wasn't made for this life
And the way that it owns me
Now as we grow old
Who are you? where am I?

These should be the good times
These should be the good times

Time makes a book, marked for use
But soon we forget how
Hands strike a bell, strings are loosed
And the mountains crumble
What would need to be
For the good of our lives?

Now as we grow old
Who are you, and where am I?