An Anamnesis Of Spring √

birth

Out the womb our days are numbered.
There seemed to be endless halcyon days
idyllic skies and pastel sunsets, we don't notice how little sand remains in the hourglass.

Soon enough all our springs, will turn to autumns
Until we reach our final winter.
The years will tally marks on our skins,
Jade our eyes, bind our bones.

After all the storms we have withered
All the shooting stars we've seen,
On the eve of our birth
We will have arrived on earth.