My love for yesterday’s April thunder,
why must you rest asunder?
My love for tomorrow’s golden summer
only begins when the skies grow dimmer!
My love for every season it seems
is a condition that my weak heart grieves.
..and seasons change and seasons grow
this love is an old friend,
this love is a foe.
is a condition that my weak heart grieves.
..and seasons change and seasons grow
this love is an old friend,
this love is a foe.
No comments:
Post a Comment