Symphony of Seasons

What is beauty, really? Is it what we covet, the admiration of certain of features and qualities? Could it be as simple as the flap of a butterfly's wings, the bat of eyelashes, the color of music, sound and light? What if there was a world out there where ugliness was the norm, and beauty was the deviation from that norm? What if what we think is beautiful now is repulsive in some other society?
What if it was winter forever, and the beauty that was considered then would only contain the bleached landscape, the bleak, pale light of the small sun? What if winter was our minuet, a final song, a grand finale of a symphony of seasons? An orchestral bow, like the last hurrah of autumn as it holds its head high and proud for the hanging. The music is loud and strong but grows weaker, in like a lion and out like a lamb, carrying notes of pretended nonchalance and undertones of sadness, along with the faint promise of rebirth, of reincarnation, of spring.

A/N: It doesn't make much sense. Sorry. It's got a lot of bhuddist symbolism.