a distant fire

hours that pass are filled with things that burn
all is made grey with weight of soot and dust
spring is now gone but we want it to return

there's nothing here that we now ought to spurn
the truth's contained beneath the solid crust
hours that pass are filled with things that burn

the air with turbulence and hate must churn
we fear the outcome of the least sharp gust
spring is now gone but we want it to return

the ash that falls will fill many a large urn
flames far away produce their own dark rust
hours that pass are filled with things that burn

we pay a price to live and a price to learn
the thing turns out to be another bust
spring is now gone but we want it to return

what we have got we still have got to earn
we've not yet learned to be the ones to trust
hours that pass are filled with things that burn
spring is now gone but we want it to return