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At times it feels like
Somebody cried this world out,
As if it was a tear,
Shed by a lonely child
Of indifferent alien gods.
No noble hero
To kill the ghosts of fears,
No heart
To love the nightmares
Out of its sleep,
No mercy angel there,
Its solitary soul to keep...
And sometimes I can hear it,
Weeping in the wind,
That lives between
The naked branches,
Of a leafless autumn tree,
Or feel it in the fatal sting,
That kills a frightened honeybee,
Or smell it in the lilies of the valley,
Upon the fertile soils
Of graveyard hills,
Or taste it in the maws of wolves,
That feed their hunger,
With lively flesh of midnight kill.

But for as long
As winds are blowing,
Flowers are blooming,
Wolves are howling to the moon,
And bees are sleeping
In their hive,
I\\\'ll be your runaway train dream -
You will be my alien lullaby.
Like burning star drops,
In between the moons of never’s,
And planets of goodbyes,
There lies a promise,
Of a newborn universe,
Behind the dreamers eyes.
And sometimes, while looking
At old photographs,
Demented lady smiles,
And on a big wide movie screen,
A hero never dies,
A child runs over to his mother,
And shows her what he\\\'s found -
A blackbird feather,
Lying like a weightless dream,
On sleeping winter-grounds.

©Copyright Ieva Rasmussen/Auksinės akys
2019-03-11 00:25
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2019-03-11 17:33
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