I sprint down the stairwell and rush through the backdoor 
I hear the cries of a hundred faithful; and a ten thousand more
I don't hear, but feel cruising through my bones; my humble abode 
Has lost it's glow 

A forceful support, a willing support, it has disposed
And so have all the huts and the houses and the bakers 
And the pharmacists and the general stores. 

I stand with emotions stirred wild and gaze aimlessly at the moon;

the trumpets of freedom play far away in the form of deranged loons,
Crazed by the want of a freedom they've deemed a lie.
Oh the stars are like little cottages in the lightless sky

And the moon; zoon;  joins hands to light up this night; 

With a display of a cosmic oneness they cry,
And to it all, my heart replies. 


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