| Dancer slows her frantic pace |
| In pain and desperation |
| Her aching limbs and downcast face |
| Aglow with perspiration |
| Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire |
| With just the briefest pause |
| The flooding through her memory |
| The echoes of old applause |
| And she limps across the floor |
| And closes her bedroom door |
| The writer stares with glassy eyes |
| Defies the empty page |
| His beard is white, his face is lined |
| And streaked with tears of rage |
| Thirty years ago, how the words would flow |
| With passion and precision |
| Now his mind is dark and dulled |
| By sickness and indecision |
| And he stares out the kitchen door |
| Where the sun will rise no more |
| Some are born to move the world |
| To live their fantasies |
| But most of us just dream about |
| The things we’d like to be |
| Sadder still to watch it die |
| Than never to have known it |
| For you, the blind who once could see |
| The bell tolls for thee |
| Bell tolls for |
| For you, the blind who once could see |
| Bell tolls for thee |
| Bell tolls for thee |
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