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My little friends , we go back a ways–
to when I was three or maybe four,
we used to play on summer days
and I knew then we’d met before.
For the line is fine in childhood time
between this life and last,
and often babies smile in sleep
recalling misty days long past.

Yellow garlands for my crown,
butter on my chin,
tiny fists clutch pretty flowers ,
blowing puffballs in the wind

We are survivors you and I,
soul mates,–children of the sun.
We retreat within ourselves,
when storms of life and hardships come.
Our roots tap deep eternal springs
where light prevails and fears subside,
drink deep the draughts of Love and Passion
to live each day with strength and pride.

Yellow garlands for my crown,
butter on my chin,
tiny fists clutch pretty flowers ,
blowing puffballs in the wind.

We’ve come full circle now my friend,
my hair is white just like your own,
our sweet offspring and their seed too,
scattered, to the four winds blown.
We do not fear the Reaper’s blade;
Soon you and I shall cease to be,
a new dawn just a puff away,
the wheel of life turns endlessly.

Yellow garlands on my grave, –
for all that lives must someday end,
bright golden flowers for a season,
then naught but mist on the wind.

And when that darkest sleep is over,
we’ll return like larks in Spring;
we’ll dance anew in fields of clover,
another chance to love and sing.
Then I shall once more weave a crown
of saw-toothed leaves and golden flowers,
rub yellow butter on my chin
and grow with you through summer’s hours.

Yellow garlands for my crown,
butter on my chin,
tiny fists clutch pretty flowers
blowing puffballs in the wind.