Walk slowly through bowered lanes; who knows br How many years are left to us to gaze, br To feel, to decide? br br Feel the rain on upturned head, the sun br Blazing onto winter bleached skin? br And then who knows if, when night comes br The sun will rise the next day? br br Walk slowly through bowered paths. br Walk straight, with eyes that see br The skin on fingers ready to touch br The soul deserves that much.