When the western horizon has kidnapped the sun,On the treadmill of sorrow the lonely will run. A marathon of memories will race through their mind, Of buried dreams, broken rings, peace they cannot find. They will run and grow weary; they will writhe, wail, weep. They will shout to the heavens, which seem fast asleep. The dreary-go-round they ride; onward still they spin, Going nowhere in a race that no one can win.