He racked His brain and scratched His chin.
Groaning as in pain, He paced till He was thin.

Dear me, dear me, a week now past.
Forests, mountains and seas have winds blowing fast.

The seeds are sown, the little buds awakening,
small insects unknown, all ready and playing.

But, alas, dear Wife, without a pleasant sky,
the earth and all its life, in despair shall lie.

She stepped by His side and patted Him on the arm
“I’m sure, my love, you have tried and succeed you will, so be calm.”

Dear Wife, can you suggest a colour that’s so like you,
from the east to the west, deep and serene in hue.

Looking into Her eyes, He suddenly knew,
that when the moon dies, the sky shall take the colour blue.