What hope is there, when we see no more the picture?
What mist on your eyes, that we're now blind to the future?
Where now is the picture of our spring?
What cravings do we now have for nature to bring?
Now in our summer, no more the spring to see,
And thus are we to sail in life's sea,
Albeit, to with bliss reach the other shore,
To bring real the picture which we saw.
But off shore are we to be tossed,
And sometimes see things untold,
And the billows oft want to impede our sight,
That to our good points we won't sail right.
But what cares are they that steal our wit?
That in folly we are now on course and endless pit?
Where are the dreams of our early age?
Be not in rage, but go back to the picture, as a sage.
As a lax vulture, we bring a fracture to our future,
When we see no more picture.
