Not at the end of every rain bow
is there gold
when my hand slips from yours
why wade deeper into death.
When at the end of each day
you lie awake
quiding the light out into.
The more that you dream, the less
they will see
why some become what most won't.
Through out history unto now
tomorrow some how
others are placed in the path
religions unmask
there are two who won't stop, till your dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem