The violent rocking swings
flowing in breezy winds,
such a truth buried under
storm's getting rougher now

Those squeaky and metal
posts a sign of our past?
so why does it crimple,
like congregation of masses?

I thought those playgrounds
of lost wishes rusting now,
birds swaying of tunnel waves
sprouting seeds rustling sow.

As violin strings snapped,
as all exploring of maps,
excursion to underworld
smashed are little tiny stones,

If boar hide's a giveaway,
skip pebbles to river's end
not present or below
what bells ring the beast
least upon shallow's calm?