Peaceful rolling hills,

capped in heavy snow.

Bright summer green,

turned drab winter brown.

Came a call from afar,

and echoed into silence.

From silence comes sounds,

staying for a time,

but soon demise to fraud.

Sighting pretty ladies,

but keeping them a distance,

singing to them in the warmth of sun.

Mellow songs in the air,

singing innocents and virtue,

riding smooth waves of youth.

Catching them is all I want,

to run and play,

to keep rye gold.

Golden fields turn to black cinders,

when con men steal away the green.

Turning golden rings to gray truths,

and finding the fake will be fictitious.

Let them fall, let them fall,

but keep my prospect blue