Seasons Over

How simple is the garden
From which all life is born
When vast is the confusion
From which our lives are torn

How deep have we been rooted
So high our vineyards grow
How poisonous the fruit is
Our dead we count to show

Like an apple slowly rotting
Under the brilliant sun
Behold the vast decaying
Has only just begun

The harvest will be plenty
The workers only few
The pyres will be burning
Until the seasons through  

Like weed that bare no fruit
So will be the bushel of man