At the end of the day, a night is born
Riding away the brightness with a scorn,
We talk a lot about the day we live
But do we think about the happiness we give.

At the end of each story, a moral is born
Riding away the immoral with a scorn,
We talk a lot about the god in you and me
But do we really practice the religion we see

At the end of life, death is born
Riding away breath and thought with a scorn
We talk a lot about the life we led
But do we really live? Or were we already dead.

Well, this was the end of a perfect day
And the end of a perfect life that closely lay
Though the colours of life but should fade
But for the thought of a friend we made.