I was bereft of warmth on a cold March day, whence overnight a deft young’n made his yearly play! An old man walked defeated as he muttered and chastised the young boy that heated the world as he warmly exercised. The wisdom of the elder: self-assuredly shrewd, scoffed at the brat so undoubtedly rude, “I’ll be back boy mark my words, one day you’ll be old and grey, just like the old soul I saw a year ago today!” Spring looked at him and brushed off newly sowed doubt, “Old men like you do naught but complain and pout! Look how this land flourishes with my youthful ways, I’ll do nothing but good for the rest of my days!” Winter looked at him and chuckled now forlorn, “Don’t believe me and be glad, for your hope and future’s bright, but your strength will wither from you with every passing night.” The ancient closed his eyes and lay at Spring’s bare feet, for death is something we all share as our last defeat.
This is the cyclical life of a man called Year, so for this newborn I shed another tear. He will fade quickly like the old man behind him, his now fair face will become lined and wrinkled grim. A solemn fate will catch him no matter what belief, from every fallen flower to Fall’s final leaf.