Thou Art

In yards and yards, as symphony sprouts, Taking an altitude above the ground. The light-brown mud has a cry, As the regular wind says it's "Hi". Time churns, The indelible death arrives. A low for altitude, and a low for the wind, A toll of scrutiny, and thyself, Thou art growth, and thou art death. Thou art none, not the self. There comes another seed, That too will sprout, that too will die. A friend to both in time, the symphony fixated, As the dark shade of mud.... And as distortion to the wind...