On the Pulse of Morning, of Afternoon, of Evening, of Night.
Count from One, to Two, to Three.
Not Once, not Twice, not Thrice.
And then. He grows older, senile, and eventually disappears.

The Sun waves, greets, smiles, listens.
Looking down with warmth, Laughing with no care, Playing with nature,
What a bliss we exist in, Eyes twinkling and with a slight glisten.
A Universe we can shape, an assembly of Culture.
This we can say, is presumed a right,
As for the rest, we do not notice the infectious blight.

The Moon sees, hears, remembers, regrets.
From high above the world, dragged from a realm of dreams, and rejected to the rear,
Once a ray of hope, How can a Nation fall to such a threat.
As time progresses, we recede from the center of this Sphere.
Lost and astray, we drift along the margins,
Arms we obtained to gather and sharpen.

We have began our descent towards the fogged terrain.
Where we no longer seek out fame.
What we once called a land of opportunity,
Now the remnants of the past community.