In a city of plagued persons, a cart
Does come to claim the dead,
To clear out the old and bring back the hope
That the victims forgot.
Oh yes, there are long tears to see them go
But the new town lusters so.
A town cannot survive if dead are left
To sit, fester, decay.
"In with the new and out with the aging,"
Or so wise men do say.
My sun can lace each brick or stone in towns
Of dying breeds with gold,
And bring such might to each structure to let
It in on why it stands.
It fills those frames with its resolve and they
Are then reborn to praise
My sun, delicate as the unseen winds flight,
Changing swiftly such homes.
O my subtle sun, forgott'n as an old dream
from which you wake anew,
Dancing with the whispering spring and
Praising your creator,
Such was my plague lifted from brittle bones
To rebuild my destroyed heart.