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.
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