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.