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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Over the bluff of cinnamon scented steppe
A translucent semblance of a cavorting Potentate The image seems unclear but the presence And jiving with the euphony can be feel. The leaves are swinging in the melody As if the midday breeze is blowing the Latin Pop That makes the whole nature swirl Showing the allure of pure autonomy. The impromptu spout of tears from Angels above Stopped the party below as every vertebrates Find their own shelter to mantle their selves The scorch is on but covered by dome of blues.
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