It was never clear
how a poor farm boy
could pull his roots from the soil
and
fly away

Someone in Paris could not have known
that someone dreams
why
do poets cry
and life seems so sweet
somewhere

The turning of the soil
like the folding of a soul
within the cry of hungers scream
he could always hear
them
scream

And dream....dream
of some life somewhere
where beautify was so seldom
crucified
and fathers loved their sons

was it there in the streets of Paris
where they danced to beauty
and held on tight
to sons
was it somewhere beyond
where that sun went
every night

with the dust of the land covering his face
he would wonder
and dream.....