Fruitless, fruitless birch trees
pantomime cocooning quips.
Fruitless, fruitless chinese
lingers on, on your lips.
Blithe, blithe blades of grass waver
to the song of brevity.
Blithe, blithe rolling hands savor
nectars of mortality.
Pale, pale blue skies
reserved for days, days like these.
Pale, pale blue eyes,
in liaison with the breeze.
