Autumn's first frost has taken its toll;
The rose's red petals have turned hard as coal.
The winter approaches with deepening cold;
The upcoming season must now kill the old.
With the swift wings of death all becomes frozen;
This is the hour the end-times have chosen.
Lifeless and barren, the land's laid to waste.
In order to save it, spring must make haste.
Unfortunately, printemps never arrives;
Gone are the days where we all survive.
Copyright © Danny Stinson