My dream is that of rolling hills,
Which turn to waterfalls.
And once the river is quiet and still,
It then becomes a hall.
The hall has arches tall and wide,
And at the end, a King.
He reaches me with two great strides,
And beckons me to sing.
And then I saw the people there,
Who did not have a choice.
The musicians played with utmost care,
Yet, I couldn’t find my voice.
It was then I was imprisoned,
In a dungeon cold and dark.
And soon I was positioned,
So that the ax could hit its mark.
But then dungeon turned cathedral,
And I smiled at the priest,
When the tolling bells began to call,
The children to the feast.
Then I was alone again,
Amongst the rolling hills.
I heard the voices on the wind,
Which suddenly went still.
And then the hill was soaked in red,
The ax had found its sheath.
My soul and mind were filled with dread,
And I drifted off to sleep.
