A cold wind now blows,
At the end of the bright day.
Where the sun once shun.
The cold winter ice,
Waters the coming flowers,
When spring sun arrives.
The mighty oak tree,
Takes one hundred years to grow.
Cut down in moments.
When nights lonely darkness comes.
Men dream of the day.
Wasting the beauty of stars.
The gentle leaf falls,
The end of life. In its place,
Three new leaves will grow.
The sun sets now. This,
the most beautiful part,
Is at the days end.
