When the years of the first buds appear,

In its finest of its black jewels clustered in unison.

Tell-tale scars of purple crust dug deeper,

Unscathed its old branches.

And for the one that lies away in the wind,

When shall we become the soil that slowly falls out of our hands?

Slowly my skin will become these ashes,

Scattered around this holy globe.

For my bloodline shall wonder,

Were for my disappearance in thy’s eyes?

Soon will I vanish without a trace,

From Thee’s Wrath somewhere to an unknown place.

So for I wonder,

In this era for all the things I seem to compile.

It will leave to a solemn grave without remembrance,

And will my ancestors find it to look back and certainly smile?