A wizened call on dusty winds,
Something of the soot of day falls heavily,
And all is silver roads and obsidian walls,
Dressed up in nocturne melodies, what grace!
It is a mystical thing to hear such songs,
Yet hardly parse their regal countenance.

A memory lane,
Piled up with games,
With all the rounds therein,
Laughs and tears in every win,
Time well spent on family.

Sing a nonsense melody,
It ripples off the walls,
It strikes reflected true,
Struck is my heart,
That such a gift would come to me,
That I can craft a nonsense tune,
That I can make, just as He does.