The farmlands among the golden glade,
Fearing promises blithely made,
Horses’ hooves flying high,
Speeding, until they hit the sky.
Forests of that red bloom,
Laughing in that rambling room,
Hidden from human eyes and mind,
Deeper surprises to hide and find.
Listless graves lie silent still,
Upon the crossed and white-marked hill,
Souls of the dead, and corpses of the gone,
Do they rise in the early dawn?
Fish and whales swim carefree so,
Because they seem to simply know,
Cares of the world are to be left,
And joy will never leave us bereft.
Whispering willows sipping wine,
Never having been in a place so fine,
Vindictive knives fly around,
And warn us to stay off the ground.
Hand-in-hand we stroll today,
Keeping our foolish fears at bay,
New songs play upon the window-sill,
We die, but we also kill.