Old Letter

Come seek us where our voices sound, we cannot sing above the ground, an hour long you'll have to look & to recover what we took, & while you're searching, ponder this; we've taken what you'll sorely miss. An hour long you'll have to look & to recover what we took, your time's half-gone, so tarry not, lest what you seek stays here to rot, but past an hour, the prospect's black, too late, it's gone, it won't come back.