Into the cold wind...
For the artist the flow of ink is their lifeblood,
As it drips along a well worn page.
For the artist with their fountain pen,
They draw lines as if it was their blood.
And yet as the ink flows up and down,
And the statues in drawn forests frown,
Only the sound of water lilies come around,
And whisper in your ear.
Yet as the moonlight hovers above,
And the ghosts at night long for solace,
As they gravitate along the gallows tree,
In the world of moonlight above,
Only the spirits walk free.
The spirits of the young ones,
Hung so high up on a gallows tree,
Cry out in agony, longing for a better world,
Not dangling on a tree.