Beyond my window’s dusty pane,
Either side the travellers lane,
The meadows fold,
Like seas of gold,
Wreathed in plants
That nature grants
To embroider its flaxen gown,
Adorned in flowers wild and rare,
And though the trees have been stripped bare
By winter’s hands
Throughout the lands,
The sky, like milk,
Or palest silk,
It wears like a silver crown.
And in summer’s golden glow,
Sometimes crimson poppies grow,
A coaxing breeze,
That beckons the trees,
Even the nettles,
Bow down as it settles
Upon the swaying grass,
The red wings dance above the fields,
Enjoying what the summer yields,
Before it’s too late,
And due to fate,
The winter’s here,
And all the year,
Is ended with a frost,
Grief will slowly freeze the lake;
With all its life, it yearns to wake.
In spring, the reeds,
Dance as they please,
With the elegant and graceful breeze
That spring time always brings
Soon the stars will wear a veil,
Hoping spring might fast prevail,
The waters, cold,
A pose they hold,
Grieving as
The great crevasse
That winter makes is split apart
Inside it’s springtime-loving heart.
The stubborn reeds refuse to dance,
Ignore the breeze’s frail advance
For the winter’s wind is not, by far, as graceful as the springs.
