The summer men are standing, alone upon this wretched stone,
Contorted, bent and torn, dressed in paper-like ragged clothing.
The ashes of the universe, they are the brother-less bone,
Forming declarations from hearts made barren by their loathing.
The winter women, busy themselves by making baby sounds,
Weakened, sad and tired, wishing for the sun to disappear,
The carers of young flesh, the ones who turn the merry-go-rounds,
And bark at the dark night sky, with a howling that comes from fear.
So soft sands soak seas, and verdant grasses devour the sun.
Still, aren’t they all orphaned by the constant apathetic tides?
That kiss and tickle, and dampen any hope or ambition,
Reminding them with the sunset, that within them dread presides.
Some will never take the long and lonely swim to each other,
Some gentlemen will never dare ask, the kind lady to dance,
The sadness forms like weeds around beautiful flowers dying,
They both stand alone, in the season of father and mother,
The fire has gone out, yet some close their eyes and take a chance,
Only to wake in the cold morning to the sound of crying.
Outside broken sickles warily monument the parched soil.
Some hopeful but weakened authors draw visions of a new land,
But defeated, they stand, bare-faced and burnt, tormented in toil.
The courageous man will not kiss a smiling lady\'s hand,
Finding in saintly seclusion, a world of tranquil weather,
That allows the mind and soul to exhaust themselves together.