For the Sun
Flying mountains
Breaking down the hills
Oh! I can hear some shrills
Dry are the flowing fountains.
Our passion for survival
Good are what I foresee
Could it be a false see
Our last resort is revival.
We can bear no more
These pains and perpetual mourn
We hope for a new morn
For the sun our frozen lives thaw
Copyright © Goodness Lanre | Year Posted 2013
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