These are one of the few years
that I'll have you, and all of which the
disarrayed seaways and livid vaults will give.
In its simplicity and whiteness, just as
pure and untainted as you are, you are
the ashes— and paler than the snow— that blows,
you are the only tree that brings life, and
everything that you are, is everything of clutter
and strife. You dance with slow movements in the
apple field of summer, you sing alongside nature
with the echos of all the long gone, and still,
you are turmoil under the bridge of
that river.