One morn there rose a golden sun,
Which lit a cold grey sky.
A light it cast upon the hills,
Red flame never to die.
And in the hymns of sunny spring,
Bloomed flowers bright and fair.
Delicate, fragile, beautiful things,
Nurtured and loved with endless care.
And when the sunlight struck them last,
The world there came alive.
With blues and reds and yellow sweet,
On hillside flowers thrived.
The world is cold and wind blows harsh,
All flowers one day fade.
Though beauty is not in what lasts,
For moments never fray.