The trees dance,
The river rambles along
The birds chirp,
Their usual merry unhibited,
The bees move from flower to flower,
searching for sweetness
A cool breeze flows by
And the poet can't think -
can't conjure up anything of beauty,
or remarkable adoration
or unrequited love as poets are fond of,
And there flies a butterfly
A yellow butterfly. Colorful
It flies away, like a moodless poet's muse
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