Death comes by,

People cry,

They cry to the moon,

it will be over soon,

on the ashes of old,

in the bitter cold,

grow new seeds,

for happy deeds.

The reaper may call,

The trees may fall,

tears will be shed,

sorrow be had,

a new future awaits,

with fresh fates,

There is no end,

Until our knees are bent.

Tears may flow,

and grief grow,

but at last,

it will be in the past,

as new things arrive,

and old bonds survive,

The past sorrow will die,

While ahead we fly.