Spring

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush may sing.
All for to crown us with a true spring,
All for to crown now the break of the day,
When millions of flowers were pass on our way.
The millions of flowers that bloom but to die,
What answer that question that if we ask why?

'Tis creations great cycle, we're born now to die,

Then rest in eternity there in the sky.
The birds sing their song,
All ages along,
The fish dart beneath the depths of the wave,

Young people at discos do dance now and rave.
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush may sing,

All for to crown us with a true spring.

by Peter Buss

Other poems of PETER BUSS (3)

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