The torrent of the skies;
The rain and the wind,
The swollen rivers and the fallen trees.
Speak to my soul of the torment of becoming alive.
The sweet peace of death that was winter,
is not passed so easily.
As the things that will be green,
struggle to break through the frost laden soil.
Thus it is which each thing,
To become alive is a struggle.
I recognize it well, as i am still in the struggle!