The days of the old are young,

In the land where stories are sung.

Where roses bloom every dawn

And treasured, a black swan.

The days of the old are young,

And darkness is not as strong.

Where the wind softly caresses,

And soft peach cotton dresses.

The days of the old are young,

Where time has not begun.

And stars can come and visit

A place that truly is exquisite.

Exquisite really? Is that certain?

The Black swan is ignored often,

Roses die and dawn still appears,

But why is the black swan so feared?

The fear of beauty, the fear she is different,

But why is that? We cant all differ- and

Be individuals and still preserve love.

Instead there is blood, people sent above.

Taste of beauty still lingers on my tongue,

If it was a dream, had it ever begun?

I guess reality gave me a tender blow

And that taste, I will never ever know.


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