In another time they will talk, they will say we had it all. We talk now about the love that was sent, from above or below. We spin back round to a place from before, in the summer breeze, like waves on a shore. The generations flow like a spring, each one finding grace beyond a words expectation, but now we return to that fountain in which we learned to love, and things are still the same.

But the echos build as our minds begin to flow, and we finally remember the lessons of old. Like a harvest in the sun, the world turns again upon itself and can see the grace that shines from within. Under the sun the people come together, to reap the harvest it has grown. We come together as one vibration, one day, one night, as we carry upon the winds an alter of life, spanning forth from the mountain the same echos we have always known. Bring it back, again to the river. We have only what the sun has shown, the land and ourselves is all we’ve ever known.

To see a line both red and white
To play the sides upon the night
Sparks of fire burning bright
They vary on the wing

Soothing is the dual hour
As they blend, a world they shower
Two colors both posses the flower
A petal of the spring

White is empty of a fire
Delivered always from the mire
Golden, do the harps not tire
Full of youth they sing

Red weighs heavy on the eyes
And memories of a searing cry
Blind then does the red soul fly
Below the seventh ring

From a child born in bed,
To a smile, it’s been said,
To a veil upon her head,
It all begins again

You my child are but white
Piercing through the pressing night
But as I sail from down below,
It all begins again

Such a wonderful sound, all within, but everyone around. Slowly do the sparks ring through the afternoon, when at last the search for them has been laid to rest. All good things come to an end, and who could understand that better than the messenger, a detached weightless hammer. The only sound that matters now is not of substance, but of something higher, that which can never be known, just felt. The prophet is loved, but they allow it, and this is not the path as the new words come from a dark and misunderstood place. Who is the messenger and who is the prophet, for if they both must feel the words to speak of them accurately there is no difference. The responsibility is of they who bring the word, for if only they can hear it, how much do they keep for themselves. Now then does a messenger understand the end and the lack of glory it may bring. Even so, along side everything else, the faith makes it whole again, whether or not it may in fact be. All the messenger knows is that it means something to him, and the love is allowed, but this time it is the self love, so where is the difference.