Fresh morning dew, still dripping from the rose,
the blue birds sing their wishful, songs of hopes.
My garden has still breath – it alone knows,
the secrets that are bound with grassy ropes.
Pure love is endless – the bird’s sing of truth,
sweet blossoms bow so humbly, to their voice.
They rest in old age and then dance in youth,
blameless and pure of heart – they all rejoice.
They’re out of sight – hidden – like precious gems,
the rainbows do yield, while all time transcends.
The roses stand tall on their thorny stems,
as giving thanks, to their fair feathered friends.
My secret garden cast your spell in mist.
Mark down your truths on an unending list.