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Movement Two.

Colour.
Not as the visual colour, see the puerile buds of spring
Nor the verdigris forests of enchanting beauty
Neither the Gods' rubicund liquor of downfall and uprise
Dripping, dripping.
Yet, the flourishing florets, blooming in the minds,
To conquer all, with the most sweet, sweet lullabylic singing.

It is always invisible, through dark or light
Though it seeks not to be seen, but experienced
Through us all, it seeks
For those banausic will cast it astray;
With monotonous commands and the most linear of thoughts, their shoulder do weigh
Yet the ones among us,
Who prefer to dream of the future, than re-live the past
Who compose, instead of copy,
Who ask, over accept,
And those who create, where others destroy
They will be the ones,
The ones who truly find it a gift
And will cherish it as they would their existence;
Those are the lived which shall be lived.

As soldiers skirmish with swords and bows
The others will cast the dispassionate world alight
With bright eyes and warm words
Will too bleed, yet bleed with hatred not
But with inexperienced passion,
Ideas never voiced
Loves never proclaimed
And speeches to be voiced unto only the Gods.