If she is to go away,
What good will art then be?
The stars will glimmer
But only in the bright daylight
And no one shall see their presitine antiquity.
She will then be,
A season gone, but never to return!

She is a season,
That season which gathers rust and turns it to gold.
She is a season,
That season which calms the restless seas forever.
She is a season,
That season which puts away the evil of this world!

If she is to go away,
What good is then my existence?
I shall write poems still,
But they will fade away to the unknown
And no one will know what thoughts they evoked.
She will then be,
A season gone, but never to return!
This poets grave tragedy!