Down by the riverside stood the lofty windmill,

       The rapture of Creation that ground flour away.

             Its wheel of inspiration was the water churning inside,

                    Lifted from the river running by its side.

                              On the side there was a door,

                     Where bats and birds did fly.

           They nest dreams and ideas,

They took the grains and went.

Then came the miller who ground and shook,

          Everything was random and off the hook.

               He ground the floor during the day,

                   T’was his playground after Sun day.

                                  The moon came out at the dead of night,

                       To touch the river that rapidly ran by.

            Its stealthy rays found a way through the door,

To lighten and glisten the milling floor.

There the miller wrote away,

     Hiding a passion no one knew.

          He wrote out there every full moon night,

               Singing daily praises to the moonlit hue.