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seasons turn, the world burns
and values of old again return
I cannot tell what gods and their sins
once were, as my youth, it slips away
and all that was bad, is new again
on another day

the world changes so swift, sometimes so slow
we cannot help but witness, and watch it go.
till all that was, is but dust and to dust
and we strangers in a foreign land.

and memories are not but testaments
to times, and places, and practices no more.
and the gods of our youths, the nations of another day
are no more but relics held without value or honor.

How the old tire of the future, and rail against
the changing of the seasons, without rhyme or reason
until they too are relics of the past.

As the future, swiftly passed.