The swings creek, shouting their emptiness,
The children have disappeared,
Faint and aimless,
Now are the swings.
The rods, the swings dangle on, are getting tired and rusty.
The wait, the desperation builds up.
A picture like this seems imperfect.
Why, the swings have no life.
The only company they have this evening,
is the cool air that only threatens to get denser and denser.
The children protest its too cold to play outside,
The chill hits their tender frames.
And so the swings sway in a gentle manner,
Trying to find peace in this cruel treatment,
driven by Life.