Give Naught to My Riches

Here to lay,
Beneath the forest’s oak.
Time could tell,
What will remain of ruin.
If the empty clouds depart, to the west,
I would allow a tune,
To erupt, from my breast.

There, to hold an infant in arms,
Twelve months, did it weep.
It told me merry songs,
None which I’d surely keep.
To the bottom,
And to the deep.

They had given me voice,
To change the world’s tune.
Yet, what lay within,
Was my golden, beating heart.

I cradled an instrument,
One, whose mother given me.
Each blessing I possess,
Dawns the freedom I may see.

To quell an aching soul,
Which, to my riches poured.
They asked for fervency,
That I could no longer endure.

When coming to the pine,
In winter frost, did shine.
I, to God, gave a wish,
For the unknown to be known.

Every sweet season,
Came to me as treason.

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