rays of the last sunshine touch the ground
the winter is moving, which it cannot defeat
unexpected and unintended truth slowly is found
at last the pilgrims' holy hands do meet
a gentle whisp of breeze, a motionless caress
seconds sketch a path in the nutshell
no sign of initiative, its all too hard to confess
savouring the fleeting presence for it does not dwell
sin from thy lips? o tresspass sweetly urged! give me my sin again.
thoughtless actions switch on the slumbring mind
if anything is wrong the sun ill always find
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Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination
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