Ghost of Winter
The pathways in hiding I trudge, a mere wanderer am I
Philosopher, soul of songs, naked, ragged and torn
Treasures of kings bear no meaning for me,
your morals and laws are not for me
Through the air, on wings unseen, arrive my treasures, unmeasured
Like a ghost I glide from shadow to shadow
At the edges of your known world, in your dreams I hide
On wings of winds, like a ghost of winter
I breath my cold of thousand yesterdays
Someday the whole world will know:
Misanthropy is not phase
And where I go, you can't follow |
