All must die-
So I am told-
And death appears
As creeping cold.
Fiery leaves,
defiance bold;
They quake in wind,
they lose their hold.
Color flees, and
Flowers fold;
silver steals
The place of gold.
The last of warmth
And life is sold;
An aging world
Is become old.
A priceless gem beyond compare
Has fallen in the dirt;
Trampled low, its faces soiled,
And sullen in its hurt.
Beneath the filth you see the light,
The flash of beauty, cowled;
The muck is all the sadder for
The glory it has fouled.
We scramble low, within this mud
Of treachery and hate;
In tears and sweat, in our own blood,
against the teeth of fate.
We do it all to save those gems,
To pluck them from the mire;
For each is priceless, past compare,
And only cleansed by fire.
