Thorns of the sky, knocking the black sheet
Of tombs marching, on hills of bed
Eyes blinded with logs or mourning hands
Mourning for years, mourning for months.
Speak no ill to the woman who's asleep
Let her wake up smiling and glad
Let her mourn with you and march on hills
Let her keep her sheet, set her free.
I encourage you all to support and vote
Terry 
Just click here and type 'steemgigs' on the first box.
