When the western horizon has kidnapped the sun,
On the treadmill of sorrow the lonely will run.
A marathon of memories will race through their mind,
Of buried dreams, broken rings, peace they cannot find.
They will run and grow weary; they will writhe, wail, weep.
They will shout to the heavens, which seem fast asleep.
The dreary-go-round they ride; onward still they spin,
Going nowhere in a race that no one can win.