Finishing History

The wind, then the sun, then the soil; Many mingled days that blow our hopes, wishes and valor, Some too hot, too cold to loosen up energy and to recall a pedestal, trying again without falling. Then come these days when we feel adored, punished by boosted joy to prolong the yearn that every successor has a perpetual smile to the very margins of their own zenith. History must be wretched and thrilled, no consequent man can remove the cold from a prone of a freezing heart, and not to expect the heat to burst it out of consideration, life's a solemn sombre sigh. You cannot go, nor stay but you can be ... and let the tape play.