Do the trees sing lullabies to the wind,
Responding to it's caress with a gentle shiver,
Unminding it's latent ferocity,
Perhaps shy of its thrusts.
Do the monkeys grow beyond,
The revolving mud beneath them,
After they've crossed to the skies,
Or is it the mother splitting new life from its body,
To enable witnessing of the glory of this verse.
Is there a song in the perpetual motion,
Of trees, bees, rivers and seas,
Or can harmony only be dreamed.
Do dreams bind us in a plane,
How do you see the insane,
Can minds know what followers never could,
Would in reality you see all as its stood.
It is not for me to answer but a wondering fool I joy to be,
Without mystery and miracles can reality ever suffice to be,
In gushing rivers, the gurgling sounds,
Jagged hilltops and smoky clouds,
Stride of a lion and flight of a bird,
There's a bigger finger writing our verse.