This year to pass, it nears a bend
The summer days, with sorrows, end
Now, comes wintry season.
All that is, becomes what was
All answers are a, “Just because,”
Friends we know must leave us.
What days we leave, to mem’ries cleave,
What are once loved, to past they leave
A heart, is torn asunder.
The frosty wind comes early here
Hastens on by air so drear
These seasons lack their wonder.
We grow old, with passing days
Each and ev’ry parts his ways
Age but a doubtful burden
- J. P. Antonios