Chirping insects sound in the field.
Tall grass shoots to breezes yield.
A lazy creek, wand'ring by.
A lonely tree waves to the sky.

Silent, alone, her back to its trunk,
A woman sits in thoughts deeply sunk.
Across her lap, a mandolin lies.
Across its strings, her fingers fly.

A lovely tune, a simple song,
Her voice rings out to sing along.
Birds grow still, the soft wind ends.
The tree won't sway, the grass won't bend.

Through the hush, the music drifts.
The tempo races, the low chords lift.
She sings of peace, she sings of love.
She sings of gifts from up above.

All too soon, the song slows down.
Appreciation shown all around.
The wind sweeps through, strong and proud.
The creek shouts joy, the birds sing loud.

With subtle grace, the woman stands,
And humbly bows to all the land.
Then standing straight and proud and tall,
The woman leaves her concert hall.


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Halitus, in the year 587 AD.