Where is the promise of spring,
in the fall of years,
Where is the hopes of summer,
in the grey of winters.
Are we not like falling rain,
to fall in much rancour,
only to seep to the ground,
and then be lost forever.
Are we not like dew drops,
such cold caress of elegence,
only to dry away,
by the sun's magnificence.
Are we not like snowy flakes,
such beauteous designs,
only to fall away,
undistinguished in snowy banks.
Are we not like fading seasons,
to wake to every promise,
but to lose all hope and reason,
at the fade of every chorus.
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