The applewood boughs were once laden with revenant spring,
Pillars of sanctuary to golden finches lost in flock,
Through throngs of feathered wings batting valiantly against turbulent affairs,
One single creature is mottled by solitude,
For it drives him insane to be so isolated,
For as spring drifts to winter and blossom decays,
That one golden finch now sees the rays of philosophy,
That one is never joined,
Always alone,
That identity is lost once a party is not there to judge it.
