Of feathers and rain,
Both washed and running,
His strokes are free but damp,
His words are clear and flowing.
Thousand strong, they speak of life so light and pale,
Where the wind blows soft in an off-white sail;
In the faded colors they are but a dream,
Still the ocean breathes salty, calm on the breeze.
On white they bleed,
Under summer sun like rain they dry,
Although in the wet they run,
Still some day they all must die.
And they bled such beauty,
Their death so tragic, is now such glory,
Of feathers and rain they seem,
In faded colors they are but a dream.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Of feathers and rain,
Both washed and running,
His strokes are free but damp,
His words are clear and flowing.
Thousand strong, they speak of life so light and pale,
Where the wind blows soft in an off-white sail;
In the faded colors they are but a dream,
Still the ocean breathes salty, calm on the breeze.
On white they bleed,
Under summer sun like rain they dry,
Although in the wet they run,
Still some day they all must die.
And they bled such beauty,
Their death so tragic, is now such glory,
Of feathers and rain they seem,
In faded colors they are but a dream.
