They lived as ghosts Between the light and the dark Leading their lives as dead men Gone without the funeral Buried beneath headstones without dates No green fields to tread upon And see their names No flowered coffin to cry upon They were the chosen The few To fight Chasing the wraiths of freedom A ghost as elusive as themselves
Dedicated to Bobby Sands 1954-1981, A warrior who gave his life the day he took his oath
I am boiling and bursting forth from black sands where the waves whisper. I am born again, with the ferocity of ten-million suns, and all the serenity of learned men will remain unsatisfactory. For it is better to be alive, a drum which draws the tribe to bloodlust.
who really knows who really understands how is it true or not does the homeless person know what time it is did the ant you stepped on feel anything the sunset shared by millions across the globe, was it appreciated was it valued desert winds, stirring up the ancient sands, is it admired is it honored waters in the clouds, falling with raw force to the earth, is it glorified is it how do you know how do you know
Time lapses, as quick sands sift from flask to flask, Half empty - a flick of the wrist - half full; Hours of glass, ground into powder, measuring my frailty.
'He dreamed of deserts and great empty cities and imagined he could feel the minutes and hours of his life running through him, as though he were nothing but an hourglass of flesh and bone.' - Laini Taylor, Strange the Dreamer