Morning Berry
in the wet shamans garden
a budeful pass places the moist taste of a berry
worn in it's tougen bush lasting in the shade of dawns
break
a soft prick from a thorn dances through the poor mans hand
as the common growth withers there claim
the spout of a smiling flower spikes him dead
the mass of the horizon shows the play back of a cowards tale
muck the it's rising the fields perish
now the death has not passed it's bright
the shamans sing to his dead mans calling
with the suns heart shining and beating like a drum
the liking of his wounded parry
evegant breath drowns the man in vein
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