The first dance.

malakpetmasala | 29 June, 2005 06:50

Death makes angels of men, decorates shoulders with plumed wings to fly.
Fly till you taste the fresh air of freedom. Freedom from this insane theatre;
Freedom from your fears; lizards and snakes. Freedom from yourself.
Dreams that never weaved into a fabric; moments that never were cherished.

No more cousins teasing my sleep, complaining about the hillside horses
no more swims in the wells that dried, no more wounds that ought to heal
Oh brother, lets go out and play, you and I are all the same,
Name the game - the Shaman