Thistle In Fire

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The wrinkle in blood on the wrist
The dancing of thistle in fire
Old pattern of the clenched fist
In times when life still wasn't tired

The way leads to forest and moor
Where cranberry- witch calls to us
Where people are honest and poor
Where the Sun shines through sorrow's dust

And silver drops of meadows dew
And shadows in mirror of a lake
Are broken, and we watch the few
Of those who are not yet fake

The real, they will leave this world
Like the sound of my faded chord
And you can once more dare to try
See blood on my wings in the sky
The sound of my faded chord