When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
Is the moon walking,Or the clouds are joking?Is the wind passing,Or my hair is dancing?Is the night dark,Or my eyes are blank?Are the wolfs howling,Or my heart is screaming?Is the day arousing,Or my mind is shining?Is the world staring,Or I'm peeping?Is this alright to write,Or I'm mistaking?
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Is the moon walking,Or the clouds are joking?Is the wind passing,Or my hair is dancing?Is the night dark,Or my eyes are blank?Are the wolfs howling,Or my heart is screaming?Is the day arousing,Or my mind is shining?Is the world staring,Or I'm peeping?Is this alright to write,Or I'm mistaking?
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