Some evil thing, or another,
has made you slow.
Mayhap time or sister fate
hinges you so.
Yet, there is a quiet determination
in each foggy eye
that rises, to raze each day with pleasure.
Alas! time passes by
and we, all sons of virtue,
we, on seeing valor,
and we, no matter what we do,
still ever pallor.
But on, such crooked fingers cling
to livelihood - progression.
And not unlike the flowers in Spring,
I will miss your generation.
