I sit among the forgotten choir,
the grasshopper's vibration.
This funky music,
to which the grass hops and sways
in tune with the light wind.
A breeze accompanied
by the crow's solo performance.

The full beauty of greyish white vapor
fills half the sky,
juxtaposing the green grass meadow,
and the other bluish white half of the vault.

Across the field
the horses flap their tails and graze
on the green spears of a tiny forest,
where winged creatures
of all sizes and colours ask for beauty,
and the Nature giveth,
and they receiveth.

In all this gleaming illusion,
the cogwheels of the mind
run their preinstalled course.
This one track mechanical route
of the present grasshopper's tune.

Writing these words rather than being them
brings me further away from the tune.
Being there with the tune is effortless,
until the sound of the cogwheel interrupts the mechanic,
transporting no one from a grass field
to a someone trying being in a grass field.

All the while the grasshopper's sound
fades and arises,
fades and arises.

In this piece you may find a note or two
that swim in the everlasting current,
while the rest of the sound drowns,
fades and arises,
fades and arises.