Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.

It is to be on Winter's Eve,
  a holiday for two.
And how the snow will dance for thee,
  with hair matching to boot.

In both its length and in its sway,
  your strands of golden sun
will radiate our merry days
  and blind out lonely ones.

Wine for now to celebrate what
  will only be two weeks.
Wine again to celebrate, but
  these weeks to be the least!

As feast for two will soon be three
  then four, no five or more!
I cannot wait, a father, me?
  Children of ours be born!

Purpose of life, we shall have; share
  our life's meaning we will.
As us to them and they to theirs,
  we will grow old fulfilled.

Not if but when the snow winds storm,
  of me you'll find no sin.
For coat and drink will lack the warmth
  as family's love within.

Every age does create
its own poems and music
its voice shall not be silenced
deeply into the nature of things
it would not cease to dig-
conventions they blind
they suffocate the wit
rise, oh rise to raise your song
those who seek truth and justice
do not aim to do any wrong
today is the call to a new world
tomorrow shall belong
to the courageous and strong
the false edifices of the mindless throng
shall crumble.  This is not a revolution
but a logical and peaceful transition
the symbol of an age reborn
heralding in a long-awaited dawn.