Passing Fancy

We are but a scance to fairer lands,
a passing race entwined
to fancy’s brief desires, changing
ceaselessly with time;

The briefest glance of sun upon
the morning mists, so pale and grey,
that yearn for one to bind them whole,
upon the break of day.

The passing years change not the lands,
they yield no crop to sway the plagues.
The likes of we, who steal the seeds,
are scratched by thorns upon our legs.

Until a river split the fields in
twain, we cannot say
that hope for beauty’s flower
has been lost to us again.

--for Farran