Flowers and foliage are in fresh spring bloom.
Almost awaiting their certain doom.
Living to die like it seems.
A pointless cycle Mother Nature deems.
How can something futile be so beautiful?
The birds ringing songs so musical.
Something so unfair but oddly just.
Because live and die everything must.
Like a cruel and wonderful cycle everything must share.
So for that nature must prepare.
For when it's done, it's done.
That's all we get.
One shot we have wasted yet.
We still have time to undo what we have begun.
But, like I said, when it's done, it's done.