Time from its premitive
Has been sensitive with nature
Growing and changing in a holistic perspetive;
A dance for every creature.
Little from the infantry
Somethings could horror hold
In a told contrasted repulsive story,
Which chastises my fiddle mind.
A tale of spirits, the dancing ghost
Of creatures hovering in the night dark
The dreadful stories of the evil forest
Of gods, the bloody sun and all that probes alike.
Little by little and little again
All that beest illusion fades and fades
And the little boy irreversibly attain
The full stature of who he is.
But am perplexed to find me, like this.
His temerity strong and skills undoubted
Brave beyond what mediocres know.
This is the beat of ancient tide
But I think the young shall grow.