sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.

The lights dazzled their eyes
but illumined their faces
like two children drowned in surprise.

The air smelled of freshly baked food
the girls dressed in their best
giggled in utmost festive mood.

The two strangers passed through rows of light
that quickly transformed day into night
and the only beats louder than their heart
were the noise of heels quicker and smart.

One moving faster paused to find
the other had fallen behind
and soon remembering the six years between them
broke his pace to be with him.

They were dreamily moving when they reached the strand
where the river sparkling with lights
drew them to her bank for some rest.

From there they flew on wings
to extract all they could on one night
passing the musics, and the church chimes
like they were on their last flight.

When everything else fell apart
the joy still rang in their heart
and the two brothers with moistened eyes
headed towards another sunrise.