It is as though the fire wears Them, A slow burning sacrifice between Ecstatic generations, A sort of martyrdom comes in the Line of each death, The endlessly bloodstained embers Burnt beneath the tears Of those left in the wounds of time. Alas, Every seedling is a grain of energy In the marrow of the earth, So alone with so many Spilling themselves like fountains In an anonymous well. The question remains As their days become fewer Like the few Winter's leaves. They enter one another By the eyes, They speak in tongues of season And yet come upon a last dawn Seemingly with great depths Of abyss in a solemn heart. The dreams that survive them Are children lost in a mist, Stuck in a whirlwind Surrounded by Dust.