When the sun goes to sleep in the west;
leaving the dusk and the night
to blow away the brightness of day,
and the stars the darkness of night,

it wakes up smiling in the morning,
bringing the sunshine from the east,
With it, the sounds of the birds-
singing the anthems of dawn to the Maker of it all.

When i walk through a crowd of trees,
and the leaves applaud with might,
as the blessed breeze gives her breath,
and the dry, fallen leaves my stroll grace,

i gaze up into the vast, lonely skies
the lyrics and the lines of this manuscript,
the rhythms and the rhymes of the poetry,
tell of the Sculptor that moulded it all.