When the leaves begin to grow,
So does the feel of danger.
The spring breaks the freezing snow,
And the heart breaks its chamber.
The ice melts on dry grass,
It grows from that which froze it.
But the time of nurturing will pass,
Such is the nature of conflict.
Perhaps the seasons change with intent,
Otherwise it would be a mere sin,
To have held such contempt,
Only to wither away in the wind.