Speckled dusty bits of the horizon
Agonize behind the bars of their prison;
Freedom is their tainted tint,
Bonded forever with the shackles of the wind.
A pitch black pitcher, hollow and clean,
A pitch black hollow, no matter how clean;
Meaningless without a fluid, and yet,
Majestic pride swells its thorny chest.
Fields, deserts, mountains and seas
Scream in the vacuum among moving trees;
Silent words only ghosts can hear,
And shadows looming around in fear.
Who are you? He questions me again.
Oh! the quest for the answers insane!
With a shudder, the weeping of a thousand souls
Wakes me to face the volatile world.
