Chris Matthews.

Arms of Morpheus.

 

Let grow the green grass,

Of summer sweet fields,

Blow on the wind,

The sower of seeds.

 

April has ended,

May is to come,

Let hearts relax,

We lay in the sun.

 

The sun waits for equinox,

And we do the same,

That epoch when enlightenment,

Is bestowed on us all.

 

Over camouflage soil,

From which roots take hold,

Hangs darkest of night,

Let's sleep with the souls.

 

When we meet with equanimity,

of feeling no pain,

In the arms of Morpheus,

No tears shall be lain.

 

©Chris Matthews.