Is it of a child that it's born,
fallen in a puddle,
gambolling in the shallows.
Is it of Gods like grace that shone
like the blues our skies don't fathom!
Is it then of passers by that shallows gleam,
or from depths a dazzle,
a bright and distant stream.
Is it then of no novelty;
we hold them dear,
albeit for a while;
when the strangers fade
in an unacquainted smile!