Smooth as silk from bud it grew
Mountainous peaks chosen men go
Resting their mouths at its rosy peaks
Tasted nothing yet emotions sweep.
Tender earth pressed by the palms
Awoke the buds seeks to be calmed
Round and twins to and fro
Raising heat but still we go
At its peak the children fed
A taste of life where first beheld
Relief of thirst weaving life
The is no time chosen to seek its plight
Alas! The buds are dry
Wilting brown the peaks now wry
Lest it has no use
But still a place, men would always choose.