When the last eagle flies
over the last crumbling mountain
and the last lion roars
at the last dusty fountain
in the shadow of the forest
though she may be old and worn
they will stare unbelieving
at the last unicorn

when the first breath of winter
through the flowers is icing
and you look to the north
and a pale moon is rising
and it seems like all is dying
and would leave the world to mourn
in the distance hear the laughter
of the last unicorn