we are the widows of the winter to whom no spring shall ever dawn we are a window to the future the morrow s first polluted yawn we are a dowry to destruction in all the shouting we shall drown we are the shadows of the good times we are the echo not the sound indolent we promenade across the page redolent of meaning lost and gone strewn about the airwaves of this new dark age still without our substance carry on we are the widows we the words