The trees invite, the riverís charm,
"Come little boy, here thereís no harm.Ē
The boy comes, marvels and remains
And now heís healed of all his pains.

From bush, the sound of fluting quail,
Dayís bright colours the eyes assail,
On flowers red, on flowers blue
The gleam of heavenís sparkling dew.

On Fresh, green grass he takes his rest,
The clouds on high sail at their best.
Mother and child close contact keep;
The god of dreams lulled him to sleep.