He peers from a window, clef
In his wooden made house, up the tallest willow
He jumps with a whee; see, it's been long since he left his tree
And for an instant, he spreads his arms, free falling from a height
Quiet has reigned around here; for he lives on a cliff up a wistful ridge
Where he doesn't ever hear the voices from the forest
And he was quite a midge with a nature
So mellow and quite dense
And his fellows grew distant, his only sport was to make sense
Of how light has no color until it gets through his panes
Splashing on his polished floor, survivor of a pilgrimage of altruism and pain
He thinks someone is calling
Though it wasn't his name that he caught through the crisp breeze
He sprints towards the noise; he stumbles and trips
He gets up with a wheeze
And runs like the wind through the haze when he gathers his poise
"Behind these bushes, fallen", he thinks
"Beneath the drapes of green and burned umber"
"She lays, waiting"
I can't write how he felt; the words, they won't flow
It's quite a blight, for I feel bereft and hollow
But I can see it clearly; as I stroke my brushes
In a plain a bit low, condoled by the pats of gloom
As it hushes our dreary maiden
The abyss;
It knelt ,weeping so dearly
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