Quaint, small and overall,
Infatuating.
With the forest green.

Closest thing he has seen,
For a place to invite.
Those who lift the kites.

Beings who draw veins on leaves.
To whom believes,
In tiny things with wings.

He sings!
Chairs armless for their spread.
While exchanging the sweet bread.

Only three seats.
"One always open" he beats,
For an uncertain one.

Never to be filled it seems,
He still beams
Because he knows can see.