They say,

Art is for the free,

The fly away, the full, the fierce,

That it’s seeped in by given blood,

Expressed in blemishless hearts,

That it can be thieved when turned away,

Given in a breath,

But maybe things are not so so,

More to it?

All these nonsensicals that matter,

Find instead, the tale in simply those,

Who live, think, and imagine still,

Of new wonders, hope…thunder,

For rain emerges of falling fuel,

Only in those who believe,

That the Sun is only temporary,

And to capture it vibrating,

And let it escape,

To spread it far,

Embrace the universe,

And burn the stars.