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