Seasons

Bloom from the Mother
From the depths to the sky
It's a start of fresh, of new, of clean
A new beginning, far to die

The days grow hazy,
Stuck in an abyss of torrid
Too hard to work, but memories so high
As time seems to tick a horrid

Pace is growing slow
But a change of feel arises
There's a growth of inner warmth
Before the time all despises

Death now surrounds
With cold and barren trend
Leaving thoughts of woeful hate
And only darkness to descend

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