Rhymes like grains of gold,
Enslaved in the ore.
And their acquiring the under the sun need to,
Breaking the stones of emptiness.
They Shine in the sunset,
The artist's charming gaze.
Now the Creator without the need of laziness,
Weave them into a colorful pattern.
And he, drawn by inspiration,
Weaves a network of invisible bonds,
To decorate with your creation,
They are the only one's favorite music.