A fiddle tree lies bare

Until the stagnant past

Will drop the leaves from the sky

In a heated match of glut unsure,

Lying to the yearly hatchet,

And you walk down a crowded lane,

In a crowded forest dear, with meadows

Of the light and flowing,

Two destinies in a mountain of flowing water,

Not yet touched. They have not yet come

To the scene of the flower pushed forward –

Yet never let free,

As it blows about the wind, attached by a goblet

And into the waves of plutonium particles mead.