A stranger called this morning,
Dressed all in black and grey,
Put every sound into a bag
And carried it away:
The whistling of the kettle,
The ringing of the mettle,
The ticking of the clock
And the whooping of the mop,
The beating of my heart
And the plucking of the harp.
A stranger called this morning,
He did not leave his name,
He left us only silence,
Life will never be the same.