'Tis not so strange for one to love a flower,
At least as far as my opinion's worth;
Though swift succumb they to transcience's power,
And swift they settle back into their earth,
As little as the time they have for blooming,
Not so much is the time that we receive,
For walking 'neath the ancient mountains, looming,
A thousand thousand lives for them to grieve.
And yes: doom parts the flower from the stone.
But still, I cannot find my stars so hateful,
As, for a moment, I was not alone,
And for the witness of those stars, was grateful.
The truth in them is writ, and they'll recall
That we existed anyway, at all.
