Silk is the tent,
woolen is the floor,
Silk dome our teen divas have painted,
Woolen dreams our little fellows have imagined.

And now we are inside,
Just how did we fit.
And our teachers, both sit in the senter.
She plays her ukulele and he watches the fire burn.

The little girls, all so fast asleep.
Pretending to be lost in the funny shadows, so calm.
The little kings, all slowly wander,
Trying to get the older ones to tell stories, curios to know.

And the middle roses, never tired.
They sit in a circle making their flower crowns.
Oh, the middle strangers, always daring.
They play card games chatting in such a low whisper.

and the teen sages, all quiet so much.
Girls hidden in books and boys searching through dreams.
The ukulele is sounding.
The fire is burning.

Oh, moon and wind, both alive.
They both outside, guarding the tent.
Dark are the trees.
Bright are the stars.