When all the leaves have fallen,
The gold all turned to lead,
Will all the lies be spoken
And all the liars dead?
Will winter turn to springtime,
The branches green again,
Or will our loves be washed away
In cold and heartless rain?
Birds still flock the treetops,
Stark black beneath the sky,
While sorrow drifts before my eyes,
Flint-faced, my tears are dry.