Each day passes in its swing,
A game of thrill for the Giant child.
East to west, the pendulum spins,
The orb we come to know as the Sun.
And as its twirls spin in motion,
Lives of little critters ebb in hypnotism.
Seasons of life drawn in the canvas,
Of the spheres arcing dances.
Rarely once, a wise cretin will raise his eyes,
Upon the wonderment of this bizarre strangeness.
Ponder of the rippling curves of dawn to dusk,
If the Giant child will tire of this endless routine.
Pls comment, my poem. (:
