A play from the tales of old
tells the tale of a race
where adders are left to play.
A race where flesh reigns
administering its works on every soul.
A race that shuns the Hunter's whistle
walking ways that suits it's pace.
You can see the air like the gutters
blowing nothing but ills.
A race with no teacher; Everyone is a teacher.
When the race weed got dried enough
A funeral of fire
gives the race a befitting burial.
Piercing through the body of the moment
like the spear of a mighty warrior
I stir through the content of the moment
like the rolling stick does to mama's pot.
My feet wobbled and heaviness blindfolded me
I am a stone thrown in the ocean's throat.
for the ghost of the race from the tales of old
blows the trumpet of this moment.
The play from the tales of old
is edited and replayed.