A winding creek runs past the shadowy leaves.
With simplicity so calming and beauty so still,
its wild, delirious frenzy is hidden to deceive.
A magnificent stream runs with an incredible will.

Yet those wonders slip past my eye.
A queer little shack and in front of it- a child.
Blowing a wooden flute- I cannot deny
it pricks my feelings, making my mind go wild.

She sits their happily in her tattered clad
amongst the grasses that grow so tall.
Making music that rings like bells- so sad.
Her toothy grin, impressive, as she lets her flute fall.

Cautiously she advances until she stands next to me.
She touches my shawl and takes my hand.
She isn’t scared; she stands with serenity.
“Come,” she says, “come visit my magic land.”

“The poor girl,” I think, my eyes water with pity.
But again she flashes her smile- so sweet.
I was wrong again; this girl was not unhappy-
her songs are too ditty- simplicity complete.