We are but a fleeting plume of dust,
We are but a withered patch of rust,
We are but an aimless wind, whose ******
Is drifting, through the dreary twilight's must,
Awaiting, the new rising of the dawn,
Awaiting, the dewdrops which glaze the lawn
Awaiting, the quick prancing of the fawn,
Whose dancing through the fields might lead us on
Through streams and forests, far from where we've strayed
Through pastures, where the lilies rock and sway
Through clearings, where the sunbeams pierce the gray
Of the eternal dark, to light the day.
Yet, here we wait, with eagerness and zeal,
Yet, here we lick our wounds, which never heal,
Yet, here we churn the spinning water wheel,
Which drips the fatal poison in our meal.