Strange sounds and a forest nightingale, in a blurry sunrise across the western shore of
Lights that light the sky are not rare yet she cries and sings like spire harp at that sight.
She is aged yet knowledge eludes her, as time is still and the waining moon is by her breast.
my sight eludes her, but I know that the cry brings a misery for none to tell.
A storm in a tea cup?