What is that in the stream?
That is swimming about
Is it Sturgeon or Bream?
A Bitterling or Trout?
And what's that on it face?
Are they whiskers I see?
So it can't be a Dace
A catfish it must be!

See it swimming at speed
It is keen to be fed
Quickly darting through weeds
On the cold river bed
And with piercing eyes
It sees something that squirms
Is it not a small fly
But a fat juicy worm!

On her lap, rests the world,
On the cradle, little cub
Dreaming her dreams,
Deep as the ocean of space

Lands of chords and visions
Valleys of fantasies
Mounds of wishes
Havens of dreams
Dreamlike glimmer of misty veils
White towers sinking to the horizon

The soft, tender, passionate,
poison tears flowed from her eyes
Black as night, corrupted
All alone on her endless night
She drowns to the shades of sin.

It was late evening once again, and Tucona sat on her favorite spot at orphanage: bearpulley. She was wearing a light dress; it was actually her sleeping gown. Dress was white and had a wide but loose hem, so that if she would roll around it would look very big. Hem and the wide flowing cuffs were frilled. She had taken a bath earlier, and enjoyed the soft feeling of the cloth on her skin. Her darkbrown hair was only slightly moist and it flowed all over. Woman held an open diary on her lap, one hand holding the pages open and her face leaning on right fist.

My dear Father Urnu,

This song was sung to wandering Hobbits the Elves of Linna na Gelaidh met on their travels. It is, as Tolkien would say, nonsense but fair nonsense.