The silent echo gurgling down,

Through the meadows and the brown,

The white flicker of the moon,

Swaying shadows of the bloom.


The cry of the nocturnals through the barks,

The quiet whispers heard in the dark,

The smell through the green,

The little tiny colors not seen.


With the rays bringing back life,

The silent world prepares for strife,

Eyes open, colors seen,

That’s how it all has been.