Another year dead, and the harvest moon
Leaves burning is the peasant's legacy
Knelling, as the cheek of Summer is kiss'd
Shivering of the elm, she is entomb'd
The hay wain creaks through the countryside

As poet Autumn's fires scorch all this world
They are entranced by the turning mill wheel,
Clear and cutting with Proserpine's kiss
Bless the sun, decked in gorgeous array
Frost, and the dignity of flameless light,
The hermit's cottage, fashioned rough of stone
Smoke rolling slow behind the orchard's bloom

Like a cairn, the stones are aligned in silence
Arrayed by a bloodless hand, out through veils
Time is easily torn while pitchforks twist,
Twist as easily through her golden hair

Seasons that kill years...
Death that mangles hearts...
Loves that lose their shine...
Tombs that are forgot...
Darkness awaits behind the suffering day
Men that waste lives in search of Heaven
Stones are sobbing in a vernal field
Thoughts of spring and cascades before you die

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