The sun quickly goes hazy,
Leaving silhouettes of naivete

All the melodies that stirred the tree's being,
Never left its veins; still creeping

Summer whispers stories to the other parts of the dozen,
Dauntless tales beginning to finally ripen

One has savored the flame from the lips of a lad,
While the other, on one's own, the mountains of the land



The dove witnessed all of these,
and is now demeaned of herself
For she only thirsted for a burgeon of love,
however, devoured the liquid of despair