Halfway there
Then I turn around
Start walking west
But I hit the ground

And I don't get back up
I turn to my side
Elbow underneath
As the I watch the Sun pry

The gravel digs in
I turn on my back
Lie on my arm
Make it all pitch-black

I keep 'em open
When I hear sounds
Engines revving
It's about to go down

I crawl outta the way
My palms scraped and ******
Was lying on the dirt
But my jeans got muddy

Lights fly past
They show me a way
So I tie up my hair
And start walking straight

I'm still halfway there
But I turn my feet
Start walking north
Now there's grass underneath

How could one find me,
In this mess of a field?

When I dream of you,
Comes song,
Two country folk men come alive.
Tears of the song falls,
Of us,
Begging us more for simple time.
For I dream of you,
BanJoed,
Hearing the soft ballad of cards.
The playing of times,
Enticed,
Knowing you’re far apart in yards.
Here I dream of you,
Of song.

The son of heaven,  erupts with rage,
The south, dare profane my land,
The court tries to appease,
But to no avail.

The emperor's decree,
Bugle the horn and prepare for war!
The granaries full, the armoury filled,
The journey is long.

The soldier,
Kneel, to their parents,
Pray to their gods,
And fly kisses to their love,
Then they march.

Treacherous road, even more the goal,
The entourage proceeds,
Joins the youth, with sickle and hoes,
To their end,
For the love of their land.

South is in sight,
This green plain, todays battleground,
The sun dazzles the land,
As it awaits without care.

The enemy a swarm of yellow,
And ours the mighty black,
The dawn is long,

Close they eyes,
Reminiscence if it's their last,
The tears of mother,
The stern look on my father,
The embrace of love,
And the playful children.

Bugle,
And they march,
The horse gallops,
And within heart blazes a fire,
Of anger and wrath,
For their country.

Clang, the shields raised high,
Roar, the spears pierce deep,
And shine the metallic armour,
And dye the green with red.

The wind bellows,
And With it carries the smell of blood,
The land a shade of green and dark red,
A beautiful red poppy.

The light of day dares not intrude the flower,
Herein lies the true hell, feast upon it,
And see what you create,
The bugle calls the end of war,
But none a soul shouts a victory call

In a serene morning,
A widow, dares interrupt my court,
Within a web of spears,
The widow with eyes of fire,
Shouts,

"His Majesty, Your imperial highness, I hear
Your country won, What about the people?"

THE WAR

Beirut cries in constant sirens
after the explosion

I hear the frogs are singing,
meadows anointed in lyrical
benediction.
In a golden hour the fields are
sacrosanct - waiting for the hard water in a
drying fellowship:
keep your sights between the swirling moons -
the terminals extend to where we know not, for
the moisture may never come.
The song unfolds upon the face of
all the waters, the
fire apart from its origins and exiled -
something man may recognize within himself.
Sudden genesis and then divided, strewn
thin across the planting rows.
in the womb a germination abiding in peace
under the shadow of the Almighty.
then a birth into this world:
We heard the frogs were singing,
and saw the dogs were bleeding and
worrying the bones.
The gravel in my heart is enough to build
1000 chapels,
houses for worship without sacrifice.
So I sat upon the setting sun
counting my mistakes and
crossing my heart, for
long and hard is the way that from out of hell
leads up to light
and right now
all I smell is gun-smoke.
But the Heavens, they pale and deepen and pale and deepen,
and I recall that the devil hid the Trinity inside my heart.
I really did believe my destiny lay at the end of a braided rope.
But I remembered there is no
resurrection without a crucifixion.
Somewhere up ahead in all that dark and
all that cold
my ancestors are waiting by the fire.