What is one to do,
When the flowers have yet to rise anew,
And it has yet to be heard,
The faint chirp, chirp, chirp, of the early morning bird.

Little Tim who lives down the lane,
Leaves by the black of day to trod the white terrain,
In search of his once been friend,
Listening for the sorrowful chirp, chirp, chirp of those godsend.

Yet to find his little friend, Tim walks the desolate white,
In search of the colorful bird, yet to meet his sight.
Down the lane, a hint of hope,
Chirp, chirp, chirp, a hint of robin’s red in his narrow scope.

Happily running, towards red Tim goes,
Chirp, chirp, chirp the silent metal beast grows,
Without a look, in embrace he meets his friend,
Chirp, chirp, chirp comes Tim’s end.

Nature is one to be versed,
However, without that of the city, we would all be cursed