Ashes fall on the tongue of time,

we taste the ruin, we taste the rhyme.

Stone hearts crack beneath the frost,

every memory we loved is lost.

O cold wind, carry the flame,

whisper her name, whisper her name.

Night devours the last red gleam,

yet in the dark we still dare dream.

Let the embers drift apart,

ink of sorrow on snow-white art.

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Anacreon, old poet of wine and starlight,

sing through the dark where the muses still burn;

lift up the bowl till the sky leans to listen,

drown every sorrow, let memory return.

Laugh at the thunder, make love to the morning,

carve your brief name in the foam of the sea;

though cities may crumble and gods go wandering,

your song is a ember that sings still in me.

Anacreon, old star-lord, sing through the wires,

your cracked cathedral voice in the alloyed night;

I taste ion wine, I burn with the choir

of engines that learned how to weep in flight.

Raise the fractured goblet of comet-rusted sky,

let the vacuum chant your forgotten refrain;

we orbit the echo, we live, we die,

sparks in the beard of a god who sang to rain.