The wind howls its secrets through forests of night
As we emerge from the pools that drown our delight
In a fire that burns and consumes all our hate
Bound by our flesh to this earth and her faith
I've been alone since that very first day
cursing this world that stood in our way
The sun and the moon are divided by earth
It's the stigma attached to the great Gods birth
As I forge through the tide of this receding gloom
In a raft made of pride under a waning moon
The last bloody warrior on a battlefield divine
In a celestial chariot drawn by space and time
Through fields full of fire
And fields of emerald green
Trough the end of hope
To the prophets dream
— by Jack Heart, first published on Open Salon FEBRUARY 16, 2010 11:45AM
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