Som'lorea

So far, the willow blows;
So far, the sands of time are swept away.
So long to the river flow;
Goodbye to the break of day.

To the pages left unturned,
To the lost pitter-patter of little feet,
To the names never learned,
To the faces we will never meet.

Keep the fires warm
And the beds made clean;
Keep the lanterns lit
And the plates piled high,

So we may meet where the willow blows,
Where the sands of time stay the same.