Rumbling
Thundering
Glimmering
Keeping sound against sound
As it has been everywhere washed
A nightingale would woke up
To ask about an absent fellow
And admired
To see its neighbour rose yet was not dewed!
A rose of spring that comes to doors
Deeply embodied in its sins
A picture to picture would envision
Of a bad mixer has an old heritage
Henceforth will be purified
As well turning mentally sound
A photographer would precisely notice
Then indeed, it will be painted
As far as it will be implanted
Into a shadow of a reversing wind backside
To inhale buds' strong fragrances
Perhaps will be ever dewed in sunlight
Since then bud would grow up
And it would have a specific emotion
And to welcome the thorns of never roses
But to have a throne on that manifest-eyed
To be darkened within the emotion of night
As well within each flappy wings
Not to be blundering when it flies
Therefore, it would be ever pleasant
And variant colours would be unrestricted
To hang over eyes meditating in souls reactions
Though poor would have extremely rich souls
So both nightingale and swine would be pleased
And man to man would welcome
As wolves to wolves welcome