Come on people it’s time to celebrate!
Today is the day when Jesus became a bunny and laid chocolate eggs.
Everybody get together.

Every Christian on the birthday lie.
Eating the eggs that fell from the sky.

Come to the alter.
Bring a ****** flower.
Impregnated by the spring sun.
When we see him again,
They will bring their children.

We hunt for dyed red eggs from the alter!
We toast to the birthday of the fertile mother!
It’s time to celebrate! Come on let’s celebrate!

Pull Jesus out of an egg. This way I will remember I’ll never die.
The Queen smiles from behind his face. The bunnies have got you hunting for a lie.
Chocolate bunnies mating in the spring sun,
Remembering the death of the Queen’s son.

She ascended and became the moon. Her husband, the sun, impregnated her, with rays of light.

She descended in an egg, touched the water, and hatched out all renewed, the Queen of all the clouds.
She beget a son, the first chocolate bunny.
She submerged all the bunnies in the blood of the cocoa bean, so they look desirable.
They are all hiding. Time to go hunting. Let’s hunt them in celebration.

In the crisp of morning, does edge of rest approach. For in the tents of great men do the warriors awaken in preparation for battle.

Sharpening their swords, fortifying their shields, girding their spears and dawning their armours - a crest for honour. Though amid the steadiness, do they await the word of their beloved monach.

"Sar-Shalom!" be the cries heard, echoeing upon the voices of the wind. Reaching even beyond the battlefields. The name of the monach, adored by the great men, anticipating the words to come.

Alas, wisdom comes on the voice of the wind: "In the vallies, will you victories come". Bewildered they stood, asking themselves "why?" But, their monach adorned in their love does their loyalty stand.

So, to the vallies do they march. Upon the word do they stand, anticipation honoured by their trust. For a hard battle will they fight, yet a grand victory will they know - a relief from their beloved.

From the peaks do they descend, and to the vallies do they arrive. The battlefield marked for honour by their seeing eyes;
Unsheathing are they ready, for the accusers come - but unexpecting are they, for the assurance declared in the meeting of blades.

The divines surrounding their accusers, is the battle endorsed for the victors. As they cut down even their final Goliaths. In the praises given up on the voices of the wind, does Sar-Shalom hear the chants - His great men, now the victories of Eden.

Now the journey do they cherish, in returning to their home. The tents of great men, now victories on the heights. What more shall be done? But to sing in glee. For the enemies borders are lost in the restoring victory.

Their wounds shall heal, and bruises shall fade, but the songs of glee shall ring out through time, eternal;
Oh, the voices of the winds chant forever "Victory in the Vallies!"

It sounds like prose,
perfect sentence,
punctuation and all.
But broken up here and there,
an attempt to imitate poetry.

To say words that are not words:
Driven - like a wind blown plastic bag:
Uncertain, circling, bobbing around -
But driven it is, if not tapped,
it’ll reached the seas and be lost:
To bring into existence a thing never heard.

A fragment, a hint, an ineffable thing,
an echo of the Word, long lost since Babel;
Yet living, its life’s magic very much potent,
resonant, manifold and transcendental.

Encouraged by similar sounds and whispers,
of dead and living poets,
of the same spirit but differently gifted.
That I owe it to all of them to do my part,
to craft this unique bit of mine.

And the ethereal Word,
more wholesome by the Day,
that it may soon resound,
loud and unambiguously,
that even the dead will rise.

The sea has a smile
a charming smile
that is the wave
the sky too has a smile
and it's the rainbow
the sea has anger
and that anger is
stormy tide
the sky has anger
it's the thunder
the sea has tears
that's the crystal clear
pearls
the sky has tears
that's the shooting stars at night
the sea has happiness
free happiness
it's the fish jumping out of the water
every so often
the sky has happiness
and it's the free-flying birds
gliding toward
their shelter
their paradise
and haven.

Venus de Milo
is,
a myth
who'd lost her arms,
Pushkin,
the 19th century's fall
of the sun,
the nights engulfing
the stars,
while the stars,
illuminating
the night,
the sounds of piano,
of Beethoven,
piercing the sky,
they are,
stars
that never fall.

The soft wind blows
quietens a thin
layer of grass
there's two parallel lines of footsteps
in the sand
the soft wind blows
long hair, a transparent kite line
and a blue sky
the soft wind blows
healing the chaos of branches
leveling the water ripples
leaving a trace of bright
moonlight.

Autumn arrives
insects sing louder
high-pitched melodies
singing for
autumn
an endless song
the music of
the autumnal harvest
the moon silhouetted against
the treelined path
walking
listening to the singing
of grasses
the quiet night
bringing beautiful
reveries
the autumn cold
like the end of a story
with the arrival of frost
the song of insects will become
memory
a dream
for the coming year.

I love you like the
Moon loves the stars
Like the street loves
The cars.
But what can I say?
Before it's too late,
It might already might be-