Withering in the sun
like an old plate of grass,
slowly getting brittle,
just like glass.

Fly away o' dying at last,
be not the last, like in the past.
flattened like an old book mark,
go before it gets dark.

Withering in this baking sun,
you've already said
what has been done.

Grass that dies so quickly,
faster it looks very sickly,
in the winter.

In the summer it rises,
so good, it surprises,
the world,
it grows so highly but no more.

Its autumn now,
when everything dies,
then it starts,
to make me cry.

so fly away
before it gets winter,
no suffering, no pain,
as you have it better
in the rain