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 yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping, somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind cries: Mary

The traffic lights will turn of blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down in my bed
The tiny island sails downstream cause the 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 this crutch its old age and its wisdom
It whispers: No, this will be the last
And the wind cries: Mary

Mary, yeah...

And the wind cries...