Peeking through the morning haze
Moon in its a-waning phase
Gazes with ever placid face,
Not devoid of any grace,
To behold, observe and mark
Every flutter, cry and bark,
Every drooping of a flower
Bending under dewy bower,
Every ripple in the lake,
Every plant, the true or fake,
To the beholder doesn’t make
It any difference at all;
The dune, the creek, the waterfall,
So different and yet so strange,
So alike to waning Sage