Adorned in flowers, you will look to the sky.
Garnished with clovers, your body will sigh.
A breath to the aspens lining your road,
shading your skin in the sun of the grove.
Come down silver hands from the aerial realm
and you recall the words of the old St. Anselm.
For he argued that 'Being is greater than not being'
And you are no longer frighted by the hell
you are seeing.