each of us a faust

the brightness on the leaves a sort of grace
the birds that pass are messengers of joy
the seeds not fallen yet my eyes can trace

we wonder why the sun's far brightest face
is now as the cold breezes with us toy
the brightness on the leaves a sort of grace

the moon at night appeared in the clouds' lace
not hinting the the cold winds would deploy
the seeds not fallen yet my eyes can trace

the colours of life still hold on to their place
giving us still good reasons to enjoy
the brightness on the leaves a sort of grace

we watch this perfect moment's interlace
of light and time the purest bright alloy
the seeds not fallen yet my eyes can trace

though time the moment's magic will deface
inside my mind there laughs a happy boy
the brightness of the leaves a sort of grace
the seeds not fallen yet my eyes can trace