Where The Children Go To Play
Where the children go to play
Is where the summer grass endures
And sunbeams - like a cascade -
Pour down upon their bronze shoulders.
This - the children have learned well:
Butterflies don't really flutter -
Instead - they dance a sky waltz
To the cicadas' fond clamor.
Every breeze is a giant's sigh
That brushes their roseate jowls;
Every cloud - some foam in the sky
Behind which angels may be found.
What they know - they won't divulge
But they know what each new day brings.
Pity them - some drab adults
Who are ignorant of such things!
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