Over fields and hills he wanders,
eyes and thoughts and minds he ponders,
dreaming hard and dreaming long,
stopping just to hear a song.
The sound, so full it makes him cry,
would be a gentle lullaby
if not for sadness shot so deep
within him, barring tender sleep.
He cries for slumber taken 'way,
he cries for rest's encumbered bay,
once blue, but now tinged orange and red
with blood of child, once live; now dead.
He cries for sound as well, you see,
for all it seems to all the free,
and through his sanity, repealed,
his vision lies, at last revealed.