the words come out in cadences, pulling tricks between the shrines,
and in special meanings of the so massive juggling master at tennis,
the world is spinning in auras ringing for a dimension of planet Earth and reality.
The words are hearing, the voice is spinning, the melody’s growing,
all for the sound of clovers, all for the rings on on choosers and luck to the doers,
as the children are singing, in lines across the planet, teacher conducting,
voices ringing, without a doubt a time for leaping from buoy to deck,
I am not in any way affiliated with the last time you said that to me,
that was a joke it seemed, entirely easy to make a peace treaty,
so long as that is for you weeping, on my side, with me every second.
That is the peace of mind I’ll lay upon you and tell me now what you have in store.
More for the poor, more for the stately tremendous, more for the planet,
with sounds of birds ringing, bells of wind chimes streaming, the children ringing.
by Ben Bussewitz
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