I hold the garden.
The growth of hope
That turns to decay in its season

Efforts made in early and at last
Find empty their graces
Inside the folds of time I possess

I give fruit
And dismay
With my whims

Far from the reality
Grows the truth
That seeking men cannot find

Yet seeking
Is not amiss
For in seeking on found another

Be not dismayed
For I hold the garden
And growth, life will come in season