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Standing by the window; Eyes upon the moon; Hoping that the memory; will leave her spirit soon; She shuts the doors and lights; And lays her body on the bed; Where images and words are running deep; She has too much pride to pull; the sheets above her head; So quietly she lays and waits for sleep; She stares at the ceiling; And tries not to think; And pictures the chains; She's been trying to link again; But the feeling is gone; And water can't cover her memory; And ashes can't answer her pain; God give me the power to take breath from a breeze; And call life from a cold metal frame; In with the ashes; Or up with the smoke from the fire; With wings up in heaven; Or here, lying in bed; Palm of her hand to my head; Now and forever curled in my heart; And the heart of the world . .