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Marketa Irglova
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The Leading Bird
Clouds descend on grass grown wild,
Tall and grand, lush in hand
They bend in air as man in prayer
I'm weaving through, trying to get to you
I'm running past birds of dawn,
They sing like heaven, they're leading on
Yet I don't see slow motioned wings,
Like gold in sun, how it could be won
White as snow silk-feathered doves
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Eternal glow, they easily know
That life is grand in all its shapes,
Wether it gives, wether it takes
That I am you, you are me, and
Loving grace can set us free
From sprinting far, above, beyond
Being our own strong magic wand
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