Come spring, I’d wander upon new flowers, in perfect bloom
I ‘d walk besides the blue lakes, barefoot on morning dew
Cometh the autumn, trees turn yellow, leaves bereft, in lasting gloom
Then, winter looms from northern skies, thunder and rain ensue
Land of honey, olives, the four seasons, from memory I know
Hummingbird drifts along, no poetry in flight, not singing its song
The music left, the prose is dead, the verse sans rhyme, long ago
Dark has turned night, who spoke is quiet, the rights are wrong.
