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Special Chosen Baby Child

de Native Flute Ensemble

To write with eyes painting a picture.
Our minds are tapped with finest of wires.
Our time becomes a clone of the public.
A match erases the last of fingerprints.

In cellars we’re printing while ears laced with carbon watch closely.
Our minds are tied tightly with strings held like kites.
No rescue is seen without loss of comfort.

Wind chimes warn us of northern intruders.
We can’t see land that is lost in the distance.
Wars are raging in pastures beside us.
Doorways that were once left open are closed.

Rise, take thanks for creation.
We side with those who are humble.
Nights where handshakes were fluent, with knives we’ll study the blueprints.

Rise, take thanks for creation.
We’ll side with those who are humble.
We’ll hide our knives in cloaks made out of smirks.
We plagiarize thinking.
Rise, take bows for conception.
They’ll side with those unassuming.
We’ll breathe the air of another one’s lungs.
We’ll hinder the growing.

Words twined with spite have surfaced despite grave endeavor.
Windows give insight to our hope, not what tongues deliver.
Nights spend riding behind the wheel of travels.
Lines are magnets that hold us to shores of composure

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