In the garden, the flowers sing songs in the morning dew.
Little whispers hidden in blades of grass,
secrets only the butterflies know.
The clock ticks like the tick-tock of a never-ending story,
and somewhere beneath, bubbles are waiting to rise up,
like forgotten wishes on springs of crystal clear water.
Do you hear the song of the wind?
It plays hide and seek with clouds,
always a little behind, always chasing, never capturing.