Blossomed ideas bloom with the dream of spring.
Morning rain falls into the puddles of, forgotten past.
Leaving thoughts that wisdom brings in a longing;
For a wish I cannot grant.
Ever is there hope in the eyes of children.
Not knowing where the magic comes from.
They will faithfully accept what the guardians tell.
If it were so easy to believe as the spirit young.
Life would always be a mystery belonging to imagination.
Forgotten dreams would never happen;
And reality would be as the dream we wish never to wake.