The poet inside
never sleeps

it is awake
in the dream state

and when the sun
rises

the gold
from yesterdays
poem starts glimmering
in the eyes of the clouds
slowly drifting across the sky

the birds melody
are as sweet as a dewy
melon and as tender as
a cotton field

the branches in
the tree are swaying
in the wind

like they were
dancing to the
sweetest
poem

- ever made