The sage spirits of my ancestors fly overhead
telling that the high lands to the north and south...

Free flying air veins behold
naked smiles...

We small hobbits of the Shire ride
across narrow roads and valleys of wide...

Dance.
How the naked trees follow...

She plants sacred life
before voiceful buds...

Psychedelic paranoia flashes its furtive smile
upon my taken aback shoulder...

An innocent white virgin grasps a cup of herbal...
from beneath the round tree's vine-like fastening...

Above the standing city of churches
your blazing heart swoops down...

The last two dreamers on this pessimistic planet
inspired by not words of willing wisdom...

Perhaps I do not have to go searching far for...
do the grain's wisps not whistle a tune to my...

My raspy breath thunders past airwaves
- tapping the ticklish treasure chest...

It is spring when her words
...do not take the form of ice...