Cavité

Four seed forest, laurels fade
Thrice fed famine, balance made
The cycle has begun
Closure of an age
Becomes the season of the spirit
When the air is rent in two
And bone and blood have forgotten
C’est le temps de la
Saison rouge de la terre
The fire of night blinds the seed unchained
The will to rise is out of turn
Electric storm will strip it clean
It is a boiling and dripping burn
To taste the solar flare and see
You will never see this season burn
Then. now. ever. again