Why’s everything strange? It looks just the same:
sky as blue as before the attack,
same old woods and wind, same old water -
only he didn’t make it back...

Can’t remember now which one was right,
arguing nights with our packs on.
Only now I can’t get enough of him
now he didn’t make it back...

He’d sing along out of time and balk for no reason,
he’d always say white was black,
he’d wake me up when he rose with the dawn;
yesterday, he didn’t make it back...

We’re not talking about what’s empty now,
though this space was always tight packed.
It felt like the wind blew the fire out
when he didn’t make it back...

Now spring’s broken out, like a prisoner gone,
and I blurted out, there on the track:
"Hey, let’s break for a smoke!" His answer was silence,
’cause he didn’t make it back...

Do our dead know we keep on fighting?
And watch over us, if they do?
The sky shines on woods like on water,
and the trees turn sky blue, too.

There was room for us two, wherever we dug,
time flowed for us both, tight or slack.
Now there’s just me. But it seems, you see,
I’m the one didn’t make it back