I can’t say it enough: I love to flow,
like an even-keeled stream over smooth stones
glittering in grey under melting snow
from the mountains upstream where the wind drones:
An echo is heard. A voice does resound,
jauntily issuing forth with bold life,
claiming a space in the skies where heroes are crowned
and villains are wailed, torn apart from strife:
“Clear water turns silver above smooth stones,
and the flow is quickened at the bank’s edge;
so too do the heavens’ crystal grey tones
make men and space itch and twist for knowledge.
If you choose to scratch, well then you may reap.”
I nodded and sighed, and I fell asleep.