countless miles above the soil
the sweet soil of the mother of all
seeking for the cleansing whisper
of the wonderful winds of spring
the winds that go right through to the soul
they are the torches in the night
that keep us going on
even when an occasional rainstorm
hammers the ground
the purple lights of psychedelia
smoky fields and carnivals of hysteria
distant shouts from those unfamiliar surroundings
spaces where everything is shimmering
and all's otherworldly
a manifestation of the incredible imagination of men
it rumbles on like a hurricane
and when it's gone all that is left
is dust trails
won't feed my soul to the hungry beasts...

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