Summer days and hazy, come what mays.
Come what mays, have a wine, check the time.
Do the time, write the prose, smell the rose.
Smell the rose, prune the trees, feel the breeze.
Feel the breeze, make the pardon, in the secret garden.
What lies beyond.
Is it down the rabbit hole? A line from a poem.
Nothing quite so solemn.
In the secret garden, through the gate, is your fate.
Is your fate, ready for you, always true.
Always true.
What lies beyond.
