As summer sweetly burns the hours,
The morning’s dew will heal our pain.
Not oft the bee forgets the flowers,
Nor sun forgets to dry the rain.
Stilled by the echo of the ghost,
Chilled by the winds beneath our wing,
We have tomorrow at the most,
We have today to feel the sting.
Can you imagine moving past,
The hours that hover through the air?
Can you discern the trumpet’s blast,
That tolls the end to nature’s prayer?
With winter clawing at our backs,
The Guardian presses close at hand,
The mourning lark lets drop the axe,
The timid song turns from the land.