The summer, it breaths life,
It ignites sparks left and right
But in the summer all small fancies
Die out, burn out
Not by rain or wind,
But by fire itself,
There will be one,
That sticks, that captivates,
That holds your heart.
Then comes the rain,
It tempers the love,
It drowns the weak noise of fancy,
It washes the mud of attraction
It consumes the rage and the quiet of the heart
And let the heart finally quench its thirst
And then and only then
Can man love equally
Spring is the cruelest of the seasons,
For nobody loses love in spring,
Thus everybody does.
For this is the season of beauty,
And we believe beauty in the unbroken.
And then we cover and hide
All the imperfections of love,
This cloak that protects is burning and fleeting
And will only harm,
Yet we believe in its permanence,
because we are human.
Then there is the autumn,
And with it comes the wind,
The wind of life,
Of reality,
Where the imagined and the protected
Armor of love meets the blades of reality.
And only those who let the embrace collide
Can survive, for those who deflect,
Who evade and parry life
Will break and fade by a gust of air.
Yet only by breathing in this wind of sorrow,
Can love become real.
The frost of the winter,
Signifies the end,
It is beautiful in its destruction,
Neither does it freeze and
make the fragility of the love go away,
Nor does it build a cage of ice and snow
Where love is guarded away.
It needs not, for man does it regardless,
It just breaths death into the world,
And in love only the end is guaranteed,
The snow, white as death,
Just shows what is, could be,
And in that reflection,
We realize the final truth
And thus we end,
Either we see monstrosity,
And run away,
Or we see joy,
And continue
Yet most
Refuse to see the snow,
The sheet of ice they think truth is enough,
Yet only in ice do we the see the truth.