She writes him a letter to see how he's doing.
She's stopped up for words on a pen she keeps chewing.
The light from the window blows through her graying hair.
The pen on the page is the proof that she still does care.
'Cause in the long run the story's told,
and in the long run the young grow very, very old.

He sits in the park in the dark by his favorite tree.
His mind is all lost in a haze of how things used to be.
She carried him so far but then had to let him go.
He wanted one more chance at least to let her know.
'Cause in the long run the heat grows cold,
and in the long run the young grow very, very old.

He doesn't do much now, just sits by the window light.
His hair is so long and his unshaven face so white.
His heart feels a part of the breeze that is blowing outside.
His eyes now see magic around him at most times.
'Cause in the long run the story's told,
and in the long run the young grow very, very old.

She walks in the morning, it's best before seven.
It's that time of day that seems closest to heaven.
She finds herself dancing and singing songs out loud.
Songs from her childhood that suddenly come around.
'Cause in the long run the farm gets sold,
and in the long run the young grow very, very old.

He's ready to go now, he's done with his living.
He's gone where he's going, he gave what he's giving.
A thousand and one times he sat before dinner.
A thousand and two times their lives growing thinner.
'Cause in the long run the story's told,
and in the long run the young grow very, very old.

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