I listen to bell of transience, as one after
another my sprouts begin to wilt, to fade
until snow is covered, by bleeding drops
And red to pale, until the hour of sunset.
My heart torn as though nails of torment
being victims to constant climate change.
I gaze up to see an opposing cloud.
Oh! let unceasing an honest prayer reach,
and lend new life, to cast light upon each.
Let there be bloom, where deceased have
shed their leaves.
Photo credits: Pinterest