As the seasons change, repeat and then renew.
Gardens, field and wood resign.
To all the hand that till the land.
That mold and turn the ground.

With picture, paint, verse and song.
Who draw and sing of you.

So loud a voice and many praise,
Against the crop you grow and raze,
Out of blackened Earth.

We never find us why.
To chance the perfect hyme.
Of the perfect birth of you, drawn with perfect dye.