We who would write, Beautiful recollections, And strange perceptions, We need not suffer. All too soon, Does this specter beckon, With lovely lies, Which fill our hearts. We need not mourn, Not for the future, though, Perhaps for the past, If only at peace, at last. For, sadness speaks, No man would doubt this, But smiles sing, And calmness cures. Our futures, This life in our words, It is not sorrow. It is not simple, It is not single. It is life; True life.
As long as the hills stretch, So long shall our reach grow. As smooth as the hills roll, So smooth shall our strides go. As far as the horizon rests, As ceaseless the sun sets, Such distance our dreams met, Persistence, our hearts suggest. As light as the clouds lie, So light shall our souls be. As free as the rain falls, So too, we set control free. For never shall we arrive, And pray never to retire, As the purpose of our lives, Is the motion of desire.