Under those far-reached specks
Of joyful glittering stars
Steps a thoughtful wanderer
Like a philosopher in a hazy road of night.

In his wrinkled long lived hands
He holds the book of his soul
Where every word is written
With precision, passion and vision.

The worn-out crinkly papers
Store the wise thoughts and feelings
Which get a complement fillings.
In an every new place of wonder.

For him the adventure and life
Is the most captivating matter
To discover the goodness of people
And write the wise words of jewel.

The wind tore branches from the mother in the hospital, in death, kissing her child goodbye.

The wind gave the hawk speed in catching the field mouse.

The mouse sang no praise to God in his atheism.
The hawk thought God good.
The mother wanted to see her child again.