Death - David Gilmour

As your loved ones they place

Heavy stones on your face

Your sonnets of life

They are filling the case

High windows inside me

Look down on your face

Changing white fingers

For men in the sand

Burning bright spears

That you hold in your hand

Grey children you've spawned

They just won't understand

As the slow pulse of sobbing

Dries-from the sky

My grief in red circles

Surrounding an eye

Grey child stands looking

And passes on by