on years,
on the dance of whispers.
where have we gone
when the merry pranksters
painted the soul
of a child to woman born
where dares she grow
from woodstock
she chanced to dream
but what did those
years, mean.
she thought they
would stay… forever.
but a child to woman grows
it’s all a body knows
and
it’s the stains
that paint
on one’s remains
as they ride the wind
sweet wind
and so,
still she rides
on tomorrow’s dreams
sweeter wind stitching
a woodstock witching
never…
and always free…
– jude