Some tales say
that the morrow knows,
I know not why they say so.
Some go where sorrow goes,
I know not where they do go.
Uniqueness comes with winter's wind,
to tell a tale of mourning.
Strange one, free as summer's sin,
to tell the blind tale of wholeness.
Spinning around in
circles every day,
Transforming, absorbing
& finding a new way.
Spinning around,
spinning around they say,
"I wish them all dead anyway".
So sing the poets then,
I know now why we sing so.
So they go now with sorrow's friends,
I know now where they do go.
One comes with autumn's rain
and sings a song of mourning,
So strange & precious
he sets the spring aflame,
And sings a song of yearning.
Spinning around in circles
trying to find a new way.
Everyday, spinning around
I wish they all could go away...
A