Last petal on a rose,
last rose on the season's bough...

I picked the apple,
took a bite, crushed in between...

Ephemeral things
are burning so, in search of...

We keep on going
for we are not really...

We appreciate
what we have had right after...

Time is heartless but
its claws are not as lengthened...

You are speaking and
bubbles spring out of your mouth...

Life is a disease
that we must recover from...

In where would skies rive?
I am ardent to behold...

The torn hearts of
those who fight for right is why...

Time is the throb of
our questions in the silence...

You must want something
really hard to become...