I have walked through the wilderness with no wings,
Yet the stars keep twinkling sometimes,
I am scourged by the cold starlit heaven,
The pain dreary and my sore heart weary.
This soul speaks of a storm with an axe,
Deep into its roots and the pain is like,
A salty stream running through a wounded heart,
Yet, the fair moon’s soft splendor voice laughs and scorns,
And rises into starlit heaven.
I heard a voice say, no leaf will be shaken,
Yet, dews like a melody scatter,
And these tears are only the telescope,
With which I see into a heaven.
Maybe someday, somewhere my songs,
And feeling will greet the moon,
That day there’ll be banqueting in the sky,
And in every dark night of the soul, lost to searing shooting pain.
Sounds of joy will echo, pushing away,
Wet clogging leaves of long dead tulips ,
Somewhere, clouds will tumble,
Tempting to scoop some earth to kiss lips of the potted primrose.
But the forecast will be frost for them,
They will pull on a winter coat in spring,
And yesterday will come back like a sore throat,
Even the chill would be felt through woolen sleeves.
There, it will come to light,
It seems their prophets misinterpreted the season.
