The Weald after winter
A carpet even, freshly sprinkle.
And surging seas of white on
green pastures will fool my eyes.
And from a gentle rain
there comes a whispering sound.
Snowdrops along the edges tinkle,
I can really hear their tunes
while the winter slowly dies
and only memories remain.
Soon all sorrows will be gone,
flying like a bunch of light balloons
up, up and away.
Who does not fear, that they could stay.