When springs and autumns walk upon time,
they leave marks on faces and grounds.
They play on every season same mime,
yet they never play in same surrounds.

Time plows away youths fine beauty,
and sows wisdom in its barren place.
It might seem that one feels lifes cruelty,
but never forget the wisdoms grace.

Rosy cheeks fade like dead leaves,
that fall under the tree that nourished them.
They are taken by seasons' thieves,
that all life to final death comdemn.

In a grave rotting will life end,
one has to lifes seasons' gifts attend.