Upon the most melancholy hills
A sharp wintry breeze blows, not yet, causing a commotion.
And the distilled flowers remain chilled
As the season ends, frost comes in explosions.
Utmost similarity to the well being of life,
But, alas, not at all,
For we let the frost penetrate our minds,
And we are unfortunately doomed to fall
The violet auras rise among
A thousand flying souls
With a breath that settles in the lungs
Flaming as the ever so sparkling coals.
If we let the explosions harm us
Then the end, will unfortunately be thrust upon us.
