When we had hope, the garden was still green
as summer ended its enticing verse
before the falling leaves announced their curse,
announced the coming of the often seen
mechanics of the undesired machine
that turns all time into a matter worse
than the appearance of the ever terse
dead exclamation of what was obscene.
Now winter comes to tell us, dark and cold,
that we are mortal, but we cannot pray,
but while alive, in shadows we still sing
knowing full well that every cloudy day
will vanish with, at last, the final spring.
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