Brooks of purple and silver tipped,
Daisies on the nectar sip.
The water pure, it flows and dries.
In the warmth of summer time.
In the fall the ripples bear,
The leaves that fell into the wet,
The animals nestled without a care.
The fairies all but slept.
Oh brook of dreams, sing to sleep,
The dancing children, on their feet.
And bubble up from depths below.
Where consciousness will burrow in its rapture of its sorrow.