A withering apple tree
Will ripen with the days,
And share its fruity love
With bees and mocking jays.
In snowfall there is hope,
For those of us who roam
The footprints of a deer
Will always point towards home
And scorching suns may turn
A sandy shore to coal,
But wavy seas will rise
To soothe our aching soles.
Those seasons of decay
Will always end in May
And every broken heart,
Will mend itself with clay.
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