**I’m not dead!**
Dreaming of light that once flowed so smooth,
And with such determined vigour;
Of trees, and the tree-spirits that reside within.
All across the Lands of the New World,
Where we, feeble and weak, drink from streams;
Rust coloured, tainted by their shifting conversations.
Whilst foxes roam the valley, and the birds the hills,
We wonder, because wondering is our hope.
In grievance of what falls so swiftly to the ground-
Resenting, often living inside hate,
Of course, what else?
Blue skies, and blue water, and blue minds…
Insistence on belonging, just in the right time.
Brushed by the sun – caressed by warm winds,
Carried to faraway lands on the clouds that soundlessely swim-
Some days – beds of white.
Some days – suffocating black straight-jackets,
Unsure, not knowing the where, and the when.
And yet, in the moment, grass is still.
Our huts, warmed to the stones beneath.
Some days we manage laughs,
Some days we hold, and we drink, and we sing.
And in those times,
When Winter’s Philharmonic rings-
Living here in the hills, where the sun sees –
No matter our wild, wild dreams –
Isn’t so bad as one might first think.