Seasons

Within the folds of wind-blown fields,
Ripples through the sea of gold,
That of wheat is made.
Gilded by the full moon’s glow,
The sea is blessed with silver.
Come the morrow the day will dawn,
Upon the Harvest season.
A man can dream,
Can he not?
Dream of things beyond,
the bitter winter,
Or summer’s blistering heat ~
To crave a shift in season,
I need no other reasons.

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About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
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