Winter passed & so will spring.
It’s a solitary thing;
Watching seasons go on by.
Knowing — one day you will die;
Such a dreary thought to think!
Made for Love and worshipping,
Spring was always true and new,
singing songs known by a few.
It wore the shrine of the divine,
Bearing love, out of Goodbyes,
Kissing answers to all whys,
For what winter bore, was spring.
Seasons stroll time as a king,
It’s a tributary thing;
Much as we may walk on by,
Hardly knowing we will die;
Such a thought we don’t bethink.
Faltering through the vanity fling,
Summer seared the starless sky,
Screaming youth — a truthful lie,
But forgot — it may stay not
After goodbye for one more day.
Summer too was made of clay,
That would rot like everything.
Seasons, each has a song to sing.
It’s a customary thing;
To sing all the reasons why
you were born, you will die,
you may one-day sail and sink.
In the heat of the song they sing,
Autumn stole the fruits of leaving,
virtue, temperance of the grieving,
Stole the seeds of time and rhyme.
Long it whispered sweet decay,
Turning what’s garish into grey,
Slaying all fortune’s offspring.
Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring,
It’s a temporary thing;
Seasons bear each other. By,
then they would come to die;
Quickly leaving — in a blink.
Though, was tempted long to cling,
Winter, weary, dark, and dreary,
Walked a silent, violent, teary,
walk of mourning for the morning,
Long have slept ages away,
that refused to wake & sway,
As her flutist paramour sings.
Seasons lure us for a fling.
It’s a mortuary thing;
For allurement’s pursued by,
A fate that dooms itself to die;
Such a dreary thought to think!
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