It is but a season, though a season it is.

A pall of gloom now, where stood a blue sky.

Yet, amidst all the death around, there is a death,

to which my countrymen, you and i must never die.

Sorrow is a conjurer, turns too much to so little,

Hardens woe to numbness, then tears will run dry.

Yet, to the memory of these pyres burning,

my fellowmen, you and i must never die.

Only constant is change, a lighter air will come.

And we;

breathless no more, when this has passed by.

Yet, to these dying cries for just a mere lungful,

my dear hearts, you and i must never die.

Answers to questions, then questions to answers,

Where the fault lay, thinking heads will pitch a try.

Yet, to that unasked ask of looking within,

my soul-friends, you and i must never die.

He did it, not…