Foamy waves upon an ocean of fire
When the tides bring the setting sun forth, I step upon the Moonlit boughs of pine to let Our Mother cradle me in her tender arms.
In the dreams of another life I find her lying upon the heaths of death. Moonlight shrouds her body and encapsulates her in false warmth.
When the sea returns to its original fire of sunrise, her body turns back to dust, as the only way her spirit can hold its original form is to have the moon shine upon her forlorn grave
