If you begin a lullaby,
You’ll know what words, what tune.
The harder question, though, is why,
Which—like a red balloon
Floating along, as evening comes,
On soft, pale purple air,
Just out of reach of laws and sums,
The red balloon floats there alone,
Dark seeping in from shade.
No wonder we’re so often prone
To go to bed afraid.
This why, I hope, won’t trouble you;
With patience, questions keep.
It certainly won’t matter to
The one you sing to sleep.