Youth's Inquiry

When do green meadows become fields of gold?
When does tireless summer day become restless autumn night?
The crop is ripe; the flower's full blossomed height,
yet with unyielding hearts we behold-

-words unknown, but divine.
We maintain our faith, but for what?
An eternity doubtful to our gut,
satisfied only by his blood, Sunday's wine.

I fear not the annual fall of leaves.
I fear not the infamous angel fallen.
I fear an endless summer untrodden.
I fear to trod where Youth grieves.

Have at thee, then, cape bearing scythe,
bring to me golden fields unripe.