i've seen the mighty lands of gold
rest at altars of stone
where warmth of summers resonate
in yarn of winter's robe

in serenades for angels lone
shrivel as waves on shore
and set to howl when seasons tap
on silences some more

i've met the kindest and the wise
in wake of journeys home
who waver like the looming moon
and fade to blurs in core

they were ashes of nostalgia
in deepest pits of dream
in creed which strings the rhyme of sky
from clutches dark which scream

through whistles of an autumn breeze
on a hill in sight of night
i am the tree which bleeds her stars
through leaves of silver light