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
its all a body knows
and
its the stains
that paint
on ones remains
as they ride the wind
sweet wind
and so,
still she rides
on tomorrows dreams
sweeter wind stitching
a woodstock witching
never...
and always free...
- jude
