The rising moon is likened to an eagle screaming as it leaps from its perch. In fact, this whole landscape is dead. And listen to the ripples as they moan. I will walk alone by the black, muddy river And sing me a song of my own. Life goes on.
Time marches on.
The singer must embrace that, because there is nothing else left. The singer has resigned himself to the flow of life, even if it no longer possesses an object or a goal. The possibility of a mass spiritual revolution seems more remote with every passing year. When the strings of my heart start to sever, Jerry Garcia had recently suffered a heart attack. The gems drop away.