It’s all been said; it’s all been done,
And yet we have to try
To figure out in spite of doubt
The sparks that will not die.
The songs we know have all been sung
And ripple in our ears,
But in our mind we seek to find
The music of our years.
With every thought and every word
Some shadows will creep in,
And every script, already writ,
Must shed its shackled skin,
But in the end we’re born again
And everything is new,
And we will take our words and make
New ripples with them too.