The sky glows rich with red and gold,
Above the earth, a silver mould,
Is forged from most complex of casts;
Like most perfect things it will not last.
A blanket that no thread is seen,
Not one smallest imperfection it seems,
It falls across the hills and trees,
And lies upon eternal leaves.
The spoilt canvas once more is pure,
The slashes on its surface cured,
Towns, factories, no longer scars,
Their forms now shining white like stars.
Slowly rich skies of red and gold,
Their colours lose and life grows old,
To the silver blanket draped over land,
“Melt”, the now warm sun demands.