While willows swing in the summer breeze
a silvery ode fills the air
On a branch near the water
the little artist proudly presents his oeuvre.
For the world to hear, he skillfully sings
of dream-trodden paths and forgotten tales
But try as he might, the song that he sings
despite its grace in texture fails
And will never be more than a charming sound
the wind carries into the night.
— The End —