acres of gold

Of course searing tongs are hot

The unwitting moth to the flame

If I were a moth and a flame

The destroyer and the destroyed

Would I be burnt,mashed and charred

Any less,any more forewarned?

Somewhere in the hues of the horizon

A stunning sun tilts her glowing face

Rapt with mirth and twinkling eyes

Unveiling her secretive smirks

No moth camouflages in dark sublime

No flames too alluring,

Nor tongs searing hot

What is wrecked will be decked

Upon these fields of hope

Acres of gold sings my sun

After the rain are they sold

A magic wand for every smile

Her scintillating rays beckon

Acres of gold for every cold

Crying child of the winds

*May God restore the hurt, pained and desolate people of the winds. Goodbye morokat.