A boy is sitting on a swing,
The swing is swinging,
The sun is shining it's golden light,
The golden light from the golden sun,
And the pages of the boy's book,
Are also shining, with the same golden light,
They flutter around in the wind,
The same wind that flicks the leaves,
Of the oak from which the swing hangs,
And the boy's hair flutters too, golden, like the golden light from the golden sun,
And the swing overlooks a cliff edge,
And beyond lies an ocean,
The waves gently gliding along the cliff,
And the golden light from the golden sun,
Glistens on the expansive water,
But the boy doesn't see this,
He sees the words on the page,
but not the words themselves,
But their collective meaning,
And the golden light from the golden sun,
Illuminates these words,
And gives them meaning.
And therefore the boy does see it,
The golden light from the golden sun.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 3:57 AM UTC
A boy is sitting on a swing,
The swing is swinging,
The sun is shining it's golden light,
The golden light from the golden sun,
And the pages of the boy's book,
Are also shining, with the same golden light,
They flutter around in the wind,
The same wind that flicks the leaves,
Of the oak from which the swing hangs,
And the boy's hair flutters too, golden, like the golden light from the golden sun,
And the swing overlooks a cliff edge,
And beyond lies an ocean,
The waves gently gliding along the cliff,
And the golden light from the golden sun,
Glistens on the expansive water,
But the boy doesn't see this,
He sees the words on the page,
but not the words themselves,
But their collective meaning,
And the golden light from the golden sun,
Illuminates these words,
And gives them meaning.
And therefore the boy does see it,
The golden light from the golden sun.