A MAN builded a bugle for the storms to blow.
The focused winds hurled him afar.
He said that the instrument was a failure.
When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: “Why?”
He replied: “Because no one admired me.”
A man said: “Thou tree!”
The tree answered with the same scorn: “Thou man!
Thou art greater than I only in thy possibilities.”
A warrior stood upon a peak and defied the stars.
A little magpie, happening there, desired the soldier’s plume, and so plucked it.
The wind that waves the blossoms sang, sang, sang from age to age.
The flowers were made curious by this joy.
“Oh, wind,” they said, “why sing you at your labour, while we, pink beneficiaries, sing not, but idle, idle, idle from age to age?”