For what does the hummingbird weep?
For the lost and forsaken souls?
For the trepidation of mortals?
For the embers of brisk passion?
For the lashes of the night warden's whip?
For the eternal brace of hurt?
For the rantings of a madman?

Or is what the hummingbird weeps for not of this nature?
Could it be that the nature is of a nature from which nature's motherly embrace accepts?

Could the hummingbird weep for the mild tranquility of said mother's embrace?
Or for the warm glow of a homely flame?
Or for the amber shine of dancing stones?
Or for the soft brush of lovers' lips?
Or for the faint cry of a newborn in the arms of such lovers?
Or for the quiet persistence of solidarity?
Or for the peace of acquainting serenity?

Truly, the gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are born of a passion true to mine own
For these gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are the same as the trails of ink that roll off my page