Last night we had a bit of wind   
Now my Crocuses lay in shreds   
Among their pointed leaves   

That man must suffer so incredibly   
Within his mind, amazes me.   
But still a man must face his death, before he lives.   

The grass is gold and brushed like hair against the hill.   
Its soul lives still   
And soon will reappear, long and green   

And so with me   
I thrash among my painful dreams   
A wounded thing   

But then--   
To conquer all!   
That final spring.