An idle singer of an empty day,*
Free as the wind and drifting like a cloud,
Pockets empty, but heart so full, yet light,
Ambling carefree through leafy woods and glade,
Whistling along with the merry wood thrush,
Feasting on the violet’s fragile beauty,
Chasing the joy of each passing moment;
Into crystal words, distill their essence.
Against the shady poplar trunk, at ease,
While merchants go about peddling their wares,
As people toil for their daily bread.