Waves of time tugged the souls where the heavens awaits them, as they sing by the drums and the trumpets of the sea.
All the insects came to rest, as the clouds drifts to the west.
The ground is already wet, but the ground is dry, I bet.
Rocks turned to boulders, downhill, the heart is racing and the stream is gushing, chilly tune of the river nymph.
The brook still flows and the fields are fat.