I saw a lynx as you left..
The dusk fog lighter, a bitter sweet brighter that makes it clear...
Under the nest, by the trees.. The mythic lynx who sees through walls..
Unravels hidden truths, the clairvoyant cat.
The nest up, holds our folk.
Each twig making sense, each twig an essence.
The wind may come, it could knock the nest.
The mythic fox in the blue, light dust, lighter fog,
Shows of a fire from faraway land.
The wind may come, carrying it, it could come.
Ashes could be carried in the following wind to the next cove.
Seedling are born when a hand plants them.
A stranded seedling is an act of war, not of logic.
The war s within, invicible within the folk you've built, above the lynx in the nest you've built.
Remember, the lynx is mythic, it has clear vision.
A child's eye captures amazement in all..
A broom is a horse, a stick is a sword.
A farmers duty is to water and love.
As it is essential, it's another twig, another part.
Unguided rage will bloom in those,
who were never touched by the farmers hand.
As that hand disipates the folk disipates.
One more thought, the lynx sighs.
Your horse neighs, the path is thick.
It neighs when hope seems far.
The path is thick the fog is bigger.
Travel safely, reach home early.
The lynx bows when in retreat,
I bow in respect.
The wind is coming, have to prepare.
The fallen twigs can be put togather again.
