On winds the woeful clock
Chanting our fleeting time
Mocking our mortality
And here sit we to sulk
In anxious tribulation
Decaying slowly
And when does a bright dawn
Ascend upon vibrant trees
Whose branches flutter in cheer
Whose leaves shine green
And the sun is purer
Than God himself
Still shall the sheen
Of those vast blue skies
Subside into the past
The past always imagined
So much brighter
Than today.
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