Ever does it pass us by,

under the apple tree I sit,

it pierces the azured sky,

and extinguishes the fire it has lit.

The tree is long gone,

cut down by man,

in his avaricious spawn,

long dead is Pan.

Dwindle does the earth's last flame,

puritanical, yet true,

Nothing will ever be the same,

not me, and definitely not you.