• There are words that come to mind,
    When one does watch the morning rain,
    Slowly caressing the dawning sun's rays,
    And these words have yet to feel the ravage of time.

    So staring transfixed by the gentle earth and bold sky,
    One forgets the rain, the sun and all that it did shine upon,
    For slow are the memories coming of a far distant time,
    And quick are the fleeting thoughts of tomorrow's yesterday.

    Youth, unkonwing of their time to come in a world that has long run,
    Run its wayward paths down to the bone, ground into dust, a rich velvet desert,
    Upon which metal machines stand tall and unbearing of all our mistrust,
    Youth, that dream of their tomorrows and live for this, our today.

    But are we, the youth, to be so burdened by our fathers and our motheres,
    Our sisters and our brothers, our friends and our lovers?
    To watch a gentle earth of unhidden extremes become more everlasting,
    More bountiful in horrific atrocities that so blossom, much like spring's black roses.

    Silent, falling, fallen leaves that do so gladly enjoy their final days,
    Are they our mentors in which we should put our utmost trust and faith,
    To them, we are like gods, immortal, yet far from the pedestal we find ourselves upon,
    And in the final days we will whisper of the fallen leaves from the silent trees.

    For the gentler reasons of the seasons that we cannot say,
    Except mimic in writing, or whispers from a fargone yesterday,
    And in that sleep of time's dreamless longing,
    To a greater truth that we have been found prolonging,
    Hiding, hidden holy secrets from sweet temperate tomorrow.

    For the sun and moon around the Earth so follow,
    That dance more lovely, so lovely, that we regret,
    Their reasons for the seasons that we soon forget,
    Let the sparrow be, that so wishes to fly far, far and free.
    Or cage the bird, and cage the soul, and let be what will be.
    Give hidden shadows their moonlight darkness and steal away the day,
    For the sun does live and lie, or so the night murmurs to say.

    That here lie the secrets of the endless dreamer,
    Soft and tender be the hollow heart, for this sleeper,
    Be far deeper in the lands beneath the sea,
    And golden silver does line all that he can see,
    Yet in dreams of our heart's true song,
    His tears, our souls, do touch upon.

    For Spring was born and frolicked free,
    Yet one did wonder where doth Summer be,
    If Autumn so quick in coming did fade away,
    Leaving Winter's chill to steal the night and day.

    Yet the world does speak in the hidden words,
    In the rarest of all twilight hours,
    When all mankind is sleeping,
    One can gently hear the only reason,
    That reason,
    in which searching,
    is never truly found.