As the clock goes round,
In the day the sun shines,
The seeker finds,
The bonfire burns.
From sand comes glass,
From copper brass,
From winter it turns to spring,
All of these things bring,
From one end to another,
The woodlands howl at decisions past,
The claws of wolves dig in,
The deer scuttle around,
Their eyes glaring,
The fire in the distance burns,
The wood never returning,
Regrets begin to seep,
As the tears fall cheek to cheek,
As dry eyes become drenched and weep,
As time does not fall back,
As time does not erase,
The days,
Words spoken,
Even whispered,
Wether small or great
Though seemingly innocent they rise,
Though some things may not be brought back,
Still I whisper,
I apologise.
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