27 summers old,
One winter short
Of  bright sunlights.
I haven't been here before,
Now I am of age,
Soon another summer,
Or not, its all chance.
Every one is our first,
And fadingly a last.
27 summers old,
Am blessed evenly,
Of a dark right hand,
And light in the other,
To keep my heart in order.
Life in it's seasons,
Curse death, every fig has to dry,
Dry into its death.
Aw beautiful summers,
Cold winters harsh,
That is the harmony of life.