What beauty becalls the eyesight

Of the troubled, grown up view?

We see the world face for face

But so rarely from what we as children knew.

Who among us can recall the grasp

Of tendrils of slender flora against our sight?

Who can recall the gentle ease of the gliding sun

As it parts with the sleepy mist of night?

We have lost what we once lived for

The tender presence and hope for our lives

Crunched between the steel-armed struggle

Of these busy, forlorn times.