I forget that I lie in a world without hope,
In a world laced with darkness, a night's fire stoked,
Where the stars seem to tremble when thunder comes near,
And my innocence rests in the eyes of a deer.
Yet the meadow still calls to me, speaks: I'm afraid
Of the moon which seems threaded in scimitar's blades,
But the silence is soothing, and blackness will pass
As the music of Good soothes the slumbering grass.
Though the hallways are smeared with the handprints of men,
And the anger of ages yet triumphs again,
There is purity, still, in the tongue of the wind,
And the colors of years that the seasons will blend.