Like a silver bullet sings to the setting sun
As it swiftly flies away to the horizon
Perhaps this strident noise is meant to sound so sad
As it attests the sorrowfulness I soon had

Perchance it is too cliché, perchance it is too naive
Perchance the silence is a sign that I should grieve
Perchance it means that I sought what will never be
This chant, song to appease the bullet in its spree