Midsummer's Winter

Walk amoung his golden rays
Her treetops whisper as they gaze
His wind shall scorn, His fire shall burn
It is in time that we do learn.

Her crystal liquid, Her cold sweat
Your senses are what she shalt whet
Her lush green hair shalt bend and sway
It is in time that it turns gray.

Blue clouds, heavy though you seem to weigh
Swelled with sway and rain shalt fall in tears of gray
Her Earth is washed within the spray
With each fresh drop, come what may.

A cry of song from peaceful dove
It’s splashed upon from red below
This act, of this They see, is not of love
A cry of song is now the anguish of the Crow.

Not of our determination shalt our fates decide,
Of any which life we shalt abide.