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