The night is silent, and quiet. The wind gently rustles through the trees, blowing droplets off leaves and sending them plummeting down to earth.
Pitter-patter, helter-skelter.
Calm envelops him, whom lies within the bed of hay. The stars twinkle overhead, winking to each other, alongside the grinning moon.
Mind to matter, heart to shatter.
The frogs diminish their croakings as they sense the royal child asleep. No wailing piercing through the air, no sobbing streaming through the lair.
C the letter, T the latter.
Beneath the crib, unseen, unknown, a tiny rose it slowly grows.
H two R, he IS.
Amongst the hay, with nay a grain of soil.
It doesn't wither, doesn't recede. It just grows towards the source of light.
