A scatter to the thin puddles,
Fine threads which turn to running rounds,
All speckled paths by nascent streams,
So born now that the world is glass.

Express trip through a day,
Packed fuller than a fir tree's spine,
Concrete jungles to old oaken arches,
Making ways by solitary trees,
To finally find a place to sleep.

The light trickles down from
Lamps to glasses framed,
Glow is dripping through my sight,
At once pure bright and ice!
As its caught in truth,
My sight is white,
The darkness stunned,
And as I walk it dims again.