Why do thee strum my harp with rhythmic chaos with even the lightest gust?
Tis thus to be the mere mortals anguish to fill thy cup till the supple tears flow like the Nile.
To torment thy so even my temple cracks and dries from thy flaming sun; but, hence throws the cloud to turn any withered crop to a full harvest.
While always thy never forget the rocky mountain holding so close.
Like the dusty sands gracing so elegantly too and fro.
The pleasure of thy tendered forces to keep thy gleeful movements all to me.
With again you blow the lightest gust and, again the simple movement starts again.
