The End: a chanso

Again the end comes ’round.
The nights grow longer still,
and taint each daylight hour
with hints of gray.

A year is gone! Profound,
how time escapes, and will
elude our grasping power
and run astray.

Our clock is now unwound;
the gears of our great mill
have ground their flour,
and are at bay.

All gone, except the sound
of memories, that will,
with new spring’s showers,
clear gloom away.

Again the end comes ’round;
review again the bill
for the last happy hour,
and gladly pay.

End’s wreath is birthing’s bower;
born, a new day.

16 DEC 2010

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