Lost

	  The stories all are lost,
	  	with all their soaring words.
	  South with winter winds
	  	as fly the fleeing birds.
	  
	  They bloomed upon the pages
	  	in the coming of the spring.
	  They sang on summer breezes
	  	all the glory of the day.
	  The coming of the cold
	  	has now frightened them away.
	  To fly away like falling leaves
	  	quick upon the wing.
	  
	  And I am left to mourn
	  	with all these silent tears
	  The passing of my youth
	  	through all the winter years.
	


Created on ... June 08, 2003