To the Dryad

The chirping of merry birds
the melancholy song of brook
the lovers half asleep in the bush
the sunlight giving their cheeks an auroral look

lying there on a soft-bedded grass
with their forms intertwined
isolated from the world
united in their souls and mind

then, there are men
as handsome as Adonis
soothed by Dryad’s lullaby, they
rest in the arms of Morpheus

And when the earth bathes in silvery luster
of the moon that lights the raven sky
with wind’s moan and cricket’s song,
whispers of Cupid and Psyche’s sigh

she hears all this while she wanders
companionless in the oak land
but as happiness blossoms in her heart
the buds bloom and dense greenery clothes the woodland

when hope dies, her leaves dry up
gradually, in the brook, they fall
until nothing remains except for the silence
the echoes of which tell her sad tale to all