The Rise of the New Skill


The shine of golden memories
Being flooded by the wind
Being blown across the summer
To meet the orange clay on which you kneel
There is nothing in this land
That can not be yours
You need only say the words
You need only whisper the poem
Of the ancient saint
And the land of kings will be yours
Kiss me now as the sun does rise
And I will set you on your way
Kiss me as a brother, a lover
As the foam caresses sand
And I will watch you glance
Towards the fields of long slender grass
Where the mind blows memories toward you
To caress you
Towards the orange clay
I will send you on your way
Send you on your way

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