Scorching day of ninety-two,
nothing left for me to do.
Sitting like a rock so hard,
feeling like a tub of lard.

Young girls walking on the trails.
Sweet blown hair form lofty sails.
Thunder in the mountains echo.
time for everything to grow.

Minds and trees and wishful thoughts,
all at such a priceless cost.
Very hard to set it down,
with nothing left inside my crown...