Howard Firkin
There are no words to sing this sorrow.
This is so wrong. This is wrong.
Grass will grow and trees will bud
but no words can turn blood to song.

There are no notes to play this sorrow.
This is so wrong. This is wrong.
Sunlight dances on the sea's waves;
no one's danced here for so long.

Here no one hears and no one sings and
this is so wrong. This is wrong.
Unheard music sweeps in dust clouds;
no words can turn blood to song.

No words can turn blood to song.
No words can turn blood to song.