The summer men are standing, alone upon a wretched stone,
Contorted, bent and torn. Dressed in paper-like ragged clothing,
The ashes of the universe, they are brother less bone,
Forming declarations from hearts made barren by their loathing.
The winter women, busy themselves by making baby sounds,
Weakened, sad and tired. Wishing for the sun to disappear,
The carers of young flesh, the ones who turn the merry-go-rounds,
Bark at the dark night sky, with a howling that comes from despair.
So soft sands soak seas, and verdant grasses devour the sun!
They are still orphaned by the relentless, apathetic tides,
That kiss and tickle, and dampen any hope or ambition,
Reminding them with the sunset, that within them dread presides.
Most will never take the long and lonely swim to each other.
The gentlemen will never dare ask the kind lady to dance.
The sadness forms like weeds around beautiful flowers dying.
Here they stand, alone, in the season of father and mother.
The fire has gone out, yet some close their eyes and take a chance,
Only to wake in the cold morning to the sound of crying.
Around them, broken sickles warily monument the soil.
The hopeful, but weakened authors draw visions of a new land.
But defeated, they yield, bare-faced and burnt, tormented in toil.
The courageous man will not kiss a smiling lady’s hand,
Finding in sacred seclusion, a world of tranquil weather,
That allows the mind and soul to exhaust themselves together.