Pine needles, glowing gold, gently sway in the breeze, As pine trees hold firm against the deep freeze. To sway or stand, what chooses a man, If he should seek to understand? Perhaps a man can never see, The wisdom of the trees. The truth of those who die, Can never be known by those passing by. For winter comes and lays trees low, But in the spring again they grow. Yet men when beset by winter's cold, Do nothing more than grow old.
Play me a Future 