When blooms go to seed, I do not cry,
Only one generation has gone by.
Another will grow from the fallen seed
And bring back the sweet blossoms we all need.
And when the false stops are pulled out of time,
What's left is the great flow of Spirit sublime.

Call is Grace, Wisdom, or Light,
It nurtures us through the long, dark night
And when the seasons come to an end
We will know the Light is our true friend.