The rising sun,
the night went past,
dust from the storms,
fire turns to ash.
The winter cold,
the summer bold,
the streets of gold,
the life of the word-not old.
Tears silence on a tired face,
people of a dying race,
one's life is at fast pace,
the peace of a meadow one awaits.
Rainbows of love,
blessings from rain,
the human body,
from soil we came.
Copyright 2002. All Rights Reserved.
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