Would that the windswept blooms
Played soft through a valley's morning dew,
A while rested by sun scorched dunes
Embarked on path neither old nor new.
The wind shall choose what it will do,
Which leaves it leaves and those it shall use.
From forrest dark to desert twilight view
An acorn lays a haunting tune.
Song shines bright modicum of truth,
That we are but sand, swept away anew.