Before the season ends
and the fading lights descend,
before this moment lends
its empty memory to nostalgia:

we should make amends, my friend,
before the seasons ends,
yes, amends. How can we make amends?

What to do, what to do,
oh tell me what to do:
I’m a settled stone in a moving river,
I can feel myself being pulled.

Tell me, my friend, before the season ends,
what can be done now to ease the sting that inevitably comes
when the current carries me away?