When the dusts settle from the last wheel
and the sickle moon stoops on the bamboo grove
the dead rise in the whispers of the southern breeze.

You may hear them splashing the canal's water
beneath the hazed halo of one quarter
by nocturne music of barn owl and crickets
in lights of glowworms from darkest thickets.

If you stop on the Rotwood Bridge
can hear them sing in gay abandon
though we're now all dead old spirits
the night can't make us anymore forlorn.

The twin moon may from the ripples broken
beckon you and if your spirit awakens
take a plunge for a joyous down go
amid cheers from the watery hollow.

I close my eyes
and open them;
I think I saw the world end.

The death, destruction
The thick scent of mayhem;
We thirst for blood as our hearts pretend.

The air is heavy
With hate and lust;
We scatter our anger, we break our trust.

Our war has broken
Our world's crust;
Our swords are smeared in blood and rust.

They turn the truth
In their run for fame;
We all fall down in the pit of shame.

The bitterness shakes,
As our resolve is untamed;
*We are but pawns, to die in their game...

its the letting go
the space freedom needs
to work its magic in your soul

With every day that passes,
They say we grow into someone else;
But we have a person inside of us,
Who we meet every time we wake.
It's the person you speak to
Right before you sleep at night,
That conscious mind you coexist with;
The voice that speaks to you,
That lives in you...

*We simply become our true selves again...