qoheleth

The seasons rush from bud to leaf
greens to red turned dirty brown,
as life reborn is made for grief,
detached debris drifting down.
Forests in spring bursting anew
a foliage to produce their fuel,
recalling nil that last year grew,
unremembered, death is cruel.
Yet, man must keep the past intact
rough images, replayed, rerun,
each insisting nothing distract
Despair with his daydreaming done.
Hindsight, foresight, it mattered not,
in the end, man's compost forgot.

--H. Arlequin