It is common knowledge that a dictators power does not lay in might or grit but in making fools of usual people. Taking not an age but a moment for the simple to become marvels and the wise to become history.

If only they could see this tyrant being coated by their smirks as division conquers their own. If only they could only see the frauds final smirk merrily given as they descend to the grave. But I guess that realisation will not matter. In that lies the problem. For the usual fool, it is always too late.

Behind the door of freedom
We eat from the sweet trees
Stroll through sandy shores
We will live a sunshine that dives into the serene.

You do not have to move a mountain
when you can move souls.

Life will no doubt call you and I thieves in the end. Love, cause and sunshine will be the gold in our wandering iron grip. Let it be worth all of the thousands of bitter arrows over time that pierce our beings.

The heart of the rally can be written in the eye of the storm.

Chase my soul until the closing of the Sun
But choose hers
And so begins the hunters turn to run.

It came first. Indigenous and free. For let grief lay claim to leaves legions, armies of vessels and the barrels of blood. Go forth and look to the silent tree, lonely ocean and feel deep to the bone. It is where it lives. Open the great stellar halls of your heart again and again and again. Promise me your dawn stays glorious. The outcome unwavering. Promise me your grief stands as a prince so your love sits on the throne.