I saw the poet write
A sublime poetry
With intricate artistry.
Are we no more than mere puppets
Remote controlled by the secret strings of fate?
Or are we just a passing eyewitness
Watching a puppetry show being staged?
Little lamb, little lamb
Why don't you bleat?
I can tell you
You sound so sweet.
I would love to let it go
Would then love to see it grow
Love to see it bloom one day
To pluck its fruits ripened in the sunray -
I blew air and the pipe piped
A tune full of joy and delight,
I blew the pipe for sometime on
The tune soon turned into a song.