The sun someday will be love again.
The mountain someday will be sand.
The land in the end will begin again,
and flowers grow out of its hand.
I remembered an ancient poem,
held under the tongue of a man.
The mercies are new every morning.
The rivers will do what they can.
It is good, it is good, it is marvelous.
The water someday will be land.
This mysterious grief knows a secret.
It all moves according to plan.