The sun is high.
The light is bright.
The summer’s days were plenty.
And suddenly in all of this a rose drops its petal.
At beauty’s peak and wisdom’s high
it fades in bloody teardrops.
In summer’s days the winter urges,
we are but this play’s props.
Yet, like a tree our roots are deep.
They drink the tears of flowers.
And from them grows the winter’s warmth and summer’s shade,
spring’s green and the autumns colorful showers.
