Oh, for time is a fickle thing,

Everlasting and ever-changing.

The morning dew woken early by a summer breeze 

and the flowers bloom.

They sit upon a hill, basking in the glow of the midday sun, 

breathing in the sobs of a quiet winter.

Shadows soon engulf the light on the windowsill 

as clouds roll over the spring sky;

Into darkness,

we fall.

A blanket of snow covers the land, 

the bitter air smelling of betrayal.

Like leaves falling in the park and rain on a windowpane, 

both beautiful and tragic, 

and alluring to the human eye.

Change comes slow, 

like a blur, 

and the earth is restored to its natural state.

The seasons and direction of wind are the same, 

they end where they start 

and begin where they finish.