The old soul
of the long lost child shall I ever be.
The great gasp smell
of the smoke of train shall I ever breathe.
The toys I have lost in the tunnel of man
Have clearly marked my way,
The dog eared lore of children’s fare
have held me from the fray.
My children's tears, my children's laughs
With them I weave a magic raft
And sail from this smoking land of death.
The old dreams of eternal youth
are an isle affixed for me.
And I visit with the ghosts of past
And live in magic means.
Anon anon I hear a cry
from my children across the shore
And I leave the isle with a smile
To search for it no more.
My Children’s tears, my children’s laughs
They are but a magic craft
To keep me in this land of death
And I shall weep no more.