What terrible husks drop
away through the lurching year;

shame, guilt, sins and all
items that produce fears.

There is a season for lopping
the accumulations of unhappy life

we roll our eyes in amazement as
we see the cause of our strife.

The beam that weighed so mightily
is now a splinter we brush away.

The yesterday that opened up its horror
seems quiet, colorless, rather small today;

All the antics of youth are gone
the awkward goose has become a swan.

Song is emptied from the place where
fear struck down the heart. And we
who have survived most rightly think
         that we are smart.