After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed,
You can hear happiness, staring 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 up blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed.
The tiny island says "downstream,"
'Cause a life that lived is dead.
And the wind screams, "Mary."
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past?
And with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom,
It whispers, "No. This will be the last."
And the wind cries, "Mary!"