Lambs

A lamb waiting and longing with wings beginning to develop out of its back

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Until the day I realize I'm a wolf and I always dance when the moon is shining aswell when I'm asleep, like a lamb.

Over and over again.

Until we dance to the song of the moon in the night when it's so cold in the desert and we're so close to heaven.

Till we bring ourselves to tears in the heat of the day.

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There is a little lamb with Wings

A deserted wolf who sings

Some depressed crows

And the angel who rose

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The shepherd is waiting patiently for the lamb to arrive

He forgot to put the flowers out of his mind,

but he believes in the kind as he is not blind

They keep him warm, they make him transform

They have golden thorns

Sheeps aren't wearing horns

But he wears wings like the angle he saw by his own eye in the field of rye

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And we are trembling towards Home which is found in a dream with a sight of ourselves and within porcelain lambs on shelves, which leam.

May the lamb could be again

And the lamb could See again

On a Podest, above the dirt and out of stone, like a scaffold of flesh and bone within releam. A Sphere of stones which gleam in the veins of Life, trussed around a lamb on a shelve within some dust. Held by a wolve and nothing more.

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