THE FARE.

The strong sunlight protects each rustic flower,

The gem that cannot be possessed, it dies in the hand.

Men are allied closer to stone, that does not sour,

Than to the petal that lies obedient to the land.

No stage or growth, just the delicate or the dead.

Men can only look close and pay the fare.

Sorry nature is an illusion of life, a ghost of the senses,

yet that delicateness has the power of rapture,

It's soft and subtle mystery abdicates the pretences,

But still this contract with death mars all beauty,

So much so that the fare collector rules the world,

And the realm of man is adrift, and nature culls our fear.