The Wind Cries Mary
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers, “Mary.”
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind—it cries, “Mary!”
The traffic lights—they turn, uh, blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
“Cause the life that lived is—is dead
And the wind screams, “Mary!”
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers, “No. This will be the last.”
And the wind cries, “Mary!”