The old cuckoo slept

Awake in the infinity of dreams

Softly it kept

Resting under the oaken beams.

Tossing its voice

With a strength of unknowing

'I don't think I have a choice,

Until life stops growing.'

The old cuckoo mused

In a fitful state

Of a time once used

Passed on by fate.

A memory laden here

With an autumn leaf dropping

A moment of love there

Those sacred times forgotten.

With a splash of a shake

And a lagging of eyes

The old cuckoo wakes

Wondering how it cries.

With a final flick

And a wipe of the brow

The old cuckoo clicks

In its mind full of clouds.

Knowing its right

It turns on the floor

Closing its sight

The old cuckoo finds dreams once more.