We are: children of winter
Arrived into this world as
All else were heaving
Their last breaths-
Though they come back-
Though the birds
Still will sing-

We are: born too late
A dying breed, perhaps-
All the stories already have
Been told-
All the songs already have
Been sung-
Our fates laid bare, yet still
Out of our mortal grasp-

We will: live again
Will feel the sting of life
Three hundred thousand times yet-
Aching sunlight, jukebox songs
Our stories our own-
Our pains ours-
And ours alone.