Elegy To The Missing Purse.
The wave that rolled a gentle sea
will come around to make a glee
But the fallen tide on a sea
will wither leaves and cause it flee.
The land is a hunter of games
He's like the gentle wreath of flames
but when the misty air does maim
He becomes lost in his own shames.
The land has grown for donkey years
The land has drunk its drunken tears
The land has lost his found ideas
The land has lost his purse to shares.
The land is ruled by hungry heads
They share and sell the land seeds breads
and report distort of our dreads
And haunt our howling soul to shreds.
Oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why?
You Earth, why do you let hens cry?
You put the crown and bade goodbye
like stubborn drips of gentle eye.
"words from the innocent mind"