And who's to the heart of a lion, broken to ashes in piles? And to ashes it goes away, weighed down in burden to smiles. Who is to a lion of feathers, of broken wings in upheaval? Ashes to the ashes pouring, with them long gone good and evil. Who is to a lion in distress, confused, in bravery and will? Ashes by the ashes survive, and so is his heart remains still. Who is there to be for a lion, in love with a bougainvillea? Like ashes, its blooms are shining, and in its thorns lies hysteria. Who is to a heart of a lion, washed clean in tears of its own sins? To ashes, burns before the eyes, and down bearing on fainting grins. For a lion, How Man befriends still, a beast in look for a heart still? But to ashes, his ashes go, only then, his heart sleeping in peace, it will. |