Can delicate beauty be dependant
On the simple phrasing of a fool
Be defined through refining eyes
Or the touch of its embodied tool
Can the image of its essence
Be reflected through his words
The timid whispers of his look
And background singing of the birds
Can the sound of its humming voice
Echo as he attempts to speak
Those soft and vague, tunic lyrics
That passionately aim to seek
Can the sweet taste of this beauty
Be preserved throughout time
By the careful context chosen by him
To disclose its rhythmic chime
Must he appeal to fancy diction
To be approved by complex minds
Or be the better fool who understands
That beauty comes in different kinds.