Here comes the drum of the unconsumed
through mountains churning under burning moon
from the open eye of a sky attuned
to the stars in the mind of a magical loon

He sings to the rain; it’s said he’s rot in the brain,
but the madman sees what the people flee;
sees the thrum of the pulse of the ancient trees
through the veins where the life flows of each lived thing

Cast their pain to the wind and he breathes it in
and it drips from his tongue, and the earth drinks sin
but the stars in his heart sparkle out from within, 

cause the madman transposes chagrin

In the haste of a world that unfurls by the sun
neath the moon of the loon is the veil undone
as he watches the stars turn an hour a tick
by the fire whence transpires, his an endless wick

So, tho judge ye will, he cannot be killed
for he’s traced all space with delightful trill
tho an empty man, he has had his fill
for the madman belongs to the moon