Cavite

Four seed forest, laurels fade.
Thrice fed famine, balance made.
The cycle has begun

Closure of an age
Becomes the season of the spirit
When the air is rent in two

And bone and blood have forgotten.
C'est le temps de la
Saison rouge de la terre.

The fire of night blinds the seed unchained.
Then. now. ever. again.
The will to rise is out of turn.
Electric storm will strip it clean

It is a boiling and dripping burn
To taste the solar flare and see.
You will never see this season burn.