Some morning, when the sun still bathes beneath
a star-swept sky, the flowers of the spring
will wake and share their colours’ song, bequeathed
by flowers of the seasons gone, the kings
of heaths, of fields, of golden sands, unbound
by birds and beasts, by water and the wind.
From seed, to sprout, to leaves with colours’ crown
then down to dirt and ground—but not the end.
When winter’s here, and cold is what we speak,
there is a place that’s not so gray and bleak—
below us all, where seeds cocoon and drink
the rains that fell to feed both strong and meek.
The winter, night, and death are all the same;
we go to sleep to wake and grow again.