The Eagles

The eagles can never know The secret of the volcanoes When they seemingly fly carried By the sliding winds Over cupped peaks of mountains With the fire of their anger inside Smoldering in the carcass of history The eagles doesn't understand why The green still suckles the spring's teats And why the scream can be an echo And the echo can be a scream. But the eagles can hear The cubic rocks which roll for rolling out Their song And the brook ripples which fall With murmuring sound And the eagles can see The winding forest path Which is apparently suspended Like hanging wall thoughts On the slope fringe In a rock bizarre climbing story.