Your tracks are well followed by the cry of the birds
Why much you run my child
and your clothes are well seen in the brilliant green
of the blades that you crushed in the wild
now with each rock that you throw and each fence that you hop
you breath becomes shallow and quick
and as the sun melts away no creatures shall stay
for the sun burns straight down to the wick
Now child slow down, before you fall to the ground
for those blades will swallow your tears
You will regret your quick pace for the tears that you waste
will revive you in your vital years

-Cassie