She composed a lullaby
from frost, rain, rising sun, and wind,
as the birds flew high ,
as the squirrels were chasing.
She made it from running of beetles,
from the tousled hair of angels,
from lots of decades,
to her everglades.
She wanted to give them fond memories,
so composed it from hard, vibrant centuries.
The wind carried her children so far,
non of them are there,
but now she says goodbye.
The  loneliest childminder.
She rocks a sprout of maple
her cradle still is strong,
one long sigh, already last,
then she ends the song