How, like seasons, my life has flown
Only minutes, sounds of life was born
To hands, to feet, a child grown
A beautiful page, once again reborn.
Like fingers pressed upon window panes,
There in the Spring, there in the fall,
A memory desperate to remain
For its child, once innocent and small.
Home, a loyal servant, awaits by the door
For me to escape, to hide, to amuse my soul
Away from charred lands and internal war
Where those, like death, may take a stroll.
Bound to an eternal hearth which breathes peace
Until the nails and thorns of reality cease.
