The Greying of the Reeds

Old age is a fading color, colorful are the ageless new

The new is quick of golden gleam, and the old is slowing grey

Golden are the reeds, that never grey,

Golden are the reeds, and the lay grey of shrew

Grey as the house on the hill, where the gold reeds sway

And it washes, and washes, the grey away

And it washes, and washes, the house away

And it washes, and washes, the clouds away

And it paints on the sky a golden aurora,

That leads a road upon the golden reeds

That never whittles away

On this field of treasure, are treasures that never grey

There is greying on the reeds, some may see

Yet it is not they that are greying

They are merely washing the ages away