… are muted
… swallowed
hidden and forbidden
in the land of  love.

Incarcerated.
On the wall of unseen,
…spat out and graffitied.

Into the sleep to every new dawn,
old lady groaned solid tune of darkness,
a gate to a tale of  distant horrid  paradise,
a pale illusion of home land afar ,
of agony and of pain.

Floaded by somber night air, she blanketed the future.
Snuggled in, midnight son was in the ether of love.
To the berceuse, he breathed the embraced sorrow,
for in the song he would be the knight,
for he longed to fight with arrows of light.

Only when the spaces meet at the border of the quest,
the sky opens up for the mighty of all witching hours.
The nightie doesn’t anymore offer the warm of mother’s heart.
The echo of the cradle song is whispering in the air, for none.
This is the kingdom of dark spell.

In the land of childhood fairytale,
he crawls under thick veil of  cloud,
down and torn,
saving a life; his own to be alive.

It was an anthem of goodnight sleep,
it was where the hope and faith were laid,
until forever stops, it was said.
It is a broken fairy tale that scatters and fades away.
It is a shattered lullaby, where the end is another end.

Scavengers are occupying the dry cracked terrain,
“May the scarecrows become the saviour…”, he prays and leaves for other miracle rain.

Never was it for sale.
Never was it for trade.
Guarded by the oath of the army of love, against all self-loving.

On the dirt, dripping and dying; a bleeding heart.