Remnants of a stolen Spring,

                     filter sparsely through the empty fields,

after  Summer swiftly gathered,

                     it's harvest of shattered dreams.

Who could know when Autumn sang,

                     with leaves of golden intent,

that all would melt into icy chards...

                    scatterred like bones...in Winter's retreat?

Soft whispers lay me low,

                     as ghostly voices moan in the distance.

For seasons never end,

                     but hearts die an eternal time.