In summer mornings, I will open a small cafe.
Windows with lace curtains, open with breeze,
the ice, melting against the tall glass,
clinking on its own.
i'll tend as they be,
slowly and carefully before they're gone.

By lunch, when the sun is at its highest in the glaring sky,
i'll close the cafe and open a small booth,
which changes day by day.
I might be selling lemonade one day,
and the next day candies.
i'll sell them to young children ,
pure and unknown to the rest of the world,
but i'll make sure to remind them of their manners.

When the sun falls into the vast ocean ,
i'll bring out my words,
old and new, new and old,
and i'll give them to the young girls,
with sparkling eyes and flowers in their hair,
and i'll tell them to keep the sparkles,
because once its gone,
it can't be grasped once more.