In the broadest of strokes,
The brush that paints sky onto land,
So your voice brought sorrow to the downtrodden.
A fortunate sorrow, one seen now,
So that they might cast it all away.
Now they live in the sky
And bring the color to our lives.
On the gentlest Spring breeze,
The last gasp of restless winter,
So your movement brings warmth to the shadows.
And they all curl up into tiny specks,
And whisper all night long,
About the people they used to be,
The people that live on the wings of the wind.
Across the grassy fields,
That roll into distant landscapes,
You sit there, eyes full
of the silent spaces you wish for us all.