Ripples come flowing out to the banks
The soft brown banks of the clear blue pond.
A large green leaf is in the middle,
Of the clear blue pond with the small orange fish.
The small orange fish dart back and forth,
Nipping at the leaf, the strong green leaf,
The tall willow tree bends down,
And the her small slender leaves sweep the surface.
Of the clear blue pond,
With the soft brown bank,
And the small orange fish,
That nip at the leaves.
In the heart of the forest,
Does this sanctuary lie.
The warm blue pond is a trap for humans,
All that descend into her depths are consumed.
Consumed by love,
And they will be haunted by this forever.
They will leave this place,
And they will not be able to come back.
To the most taunting,
The most loved,
The most envied,
The most needed,
Place on the earth.
This place is called,
Nye. Nye...
My Nye, your Nye, our Nye...
Nye is the whole,
The clear blue pond that turns to muck after dark,
The soft brown banks that turn to quiksand after dark,
The little orange fish that are pirranas after dark.
Nye is the tall willow.
The willow that will turn to...
Nye after dark. For Nye is everywhere we are not.
Even in the places that we are,
There is a small piece of Nye in all human,
Which is why we can never,
Be perfect.
Like the clear blue pond,
and the tall willow on the soft bank,
And the small orange fish,
That are not what they seem...
So does that mean that everything is not what it seems?
That life is not, we are not?
No. Just that the most perfect of the perfect are not what they seem,
But we, are not perfect in every way, but are almost perfect in almost all...
