The dust remembers every passing name,
The walls retain the warmth of those who leave;
And nothing ever leaves the way it came.
A photograph can keep a face the same,
But cannot keep the years it can\'t retrieve;
The dust remembers every passing name.
We build our lives around a little flame,
And call it ours, though borrowed, brief, and brief;
And nothing ever leaves the way it came.
The rain returns, but never quite the same,
The river takes what no one can retrieve;
The dust remembers every passing name.
Perhaps we are not here to win the game,
But leave a trace in all we give and weave;
And nothing ever leaves the way it came.
So let the years erase the shape, the frame;
Some things remain in those who still believe.
The dust remembers every passing name,
And nothing ever leaves the way it came.