Even if surmise, hardy branches tremble,
but growing seeds become,
discover, rising tall with pride,
happily repent and swear:
screams are sometimes worth more than whispers,
yet whispers yearn all dawns the same.

(Notwithstanding any I eternally encaged)
Never more lovely is spring than autumn;
fungi bore yet warlords weep;
everything is forever suspect and still
never more spritely is autumn than spring.

Just when (and true is) replaceable,
lump-sum comfort remains entertains,
seldom tastier than senses amiable,
or waking love, or living possibly ending,
or even an awe-striking random be.

Drink and sing, you wherever soul, a toast
in a lone prayer for the complacent undying:
All rejoice! The world’s colors are mine and yours.
It’s true that never more lovely is spring than autumn.
Sown seeds become though hardy branches tremble
yet both still feel pleasure, unlike whispers;
and never more spritely is autumn than spring,
since growing is whispering unlike screams.