Forty-thousand


Burning air in a distant horizon heating up,

the valleys, the fields, the stony mountain.

Under all its might the herds are running.

Haven’t they known it would come along?

After all their battles, their constant winning?

There is a distant haul, a darkened song.

Those with flying carpets will ride with it.

Those with walls will fall for it.

The storm won’t carry those who are grinning.

Under a thousand suns there will always be a moon.

The reflection of light is nothing less than light itself.

Isn’t the storm not your friend when it cleans your garden?

Like ancient swords carried by the most feared warden?

Wouldn’t it be for a promise, a shining bow, beam of light.

The storms would have long carried away man-made fight.

Carried in a body of those of the colors an endless storm.

Tearing apart everything they might have been taught.

Why would I bring a storm to kill those I brought?

Like the tornado, I unroot all your houses.

Like the monsoon I water the earth and flood away.

Like a tsunami I wash away palaces unworthy of might.

The temple is within those who carry a storm.

Be it blizzard cold, be it desert warm.

Without my guarding hands they scream,

all they wish for my gorgeous dream.

Would give them a branch or two for shelter here.

Why do they hate me, why do they fear?

A mighty storm from the east.

Mightier than any beast.

A wind from the west,

lies me to rest.

what I can do best.

to lie down and rest.

Endless days the storm I carry,

when I can’t hold it, it would burry,

all who walks, who flies and swims.

All was good, until cold metal took it away.

Warm winds, warm storms will wash away.

Those who hear the storm before they see,

they know when to run, when to flee.

Do they know more or less than their master?

They know rulers cause a disaster.

Would they know that we carry the storm for them,

would they respect us and listen to us then?

If all the carriers of storms would shout,

this world would go under, no doubt.

The storms go with the fires some lay.

The storms go with the digging at bay.

The storm won’t last forever.

But I didn’t want to send it ever.

Not mine to say what some might think,

But it is a reminder, a gently wink.

Where is your home when the monsoon comes?

Where is your home when the blizzard rages?

What do you do without your cages?

When the earth screams and the volcano hums,

I don’t know where we will be.

I just know this shouldn’t be.

You can’t run forever away from your past,

as long as these storms might last,

be it a thousand years up fast.

When forty-thousand men walk through a valley,

or just a path and darkened alley.

They leave no life unchanged.

But under thousands of them, is always a storm.

And one storm can wipe them all afar.

Through the milky way, a foreign star.

You can’t escape the storms forever.

Don’t make me push that final lever.

Because of the children of mine you live,

and all what you do is take what they give.

Even take what not was meant for you,

Forty-thousand of you are nothing compared,

One of mine is more than you ever cared.

You live because they shouldn’t die with you.

Shattered I stand next to them and bitterly cry.

When one of them cries, struggles and screams,

It is as if I see myself in their dreams.

And when one of them dies, it is as if I die.

Why do they not see the land I have given?

What hit them, what made them driven?

My children carry a burden like ants are able,

Be it a storm, be it a song, a desert or fable.

I love all of them for they are mine.

With the nature around no need for wine.

All grapes would be enough to taste,

what others call a seasons waste.

Even water can taste like fire.

As you wish, as you might admire.

There is no limit, no price when I hire.

I am not this man – just an empire.

Under a tree even clouds might be ships.

Even sticks might be bones or swords.

For my children and not the self-named lords.

These lords words are meaningless cords,

on an otherwise overwhelming symphony.



The song doesn’t speak for the one who wants to be presented.

It speaks for those who don’t need all this meaningless lines, numbers and maps.

You praise what you love through what you hate.

It is indeed paradox, but how do you survive in a world in which good is evil and evil calls itself good?

Only when you see both you can decide for what you wouldn’t want.

I might speak lousy, I might speak dumb.

I might be wise or lost my mind.

All I know, I want to be kind.

But tell that a stormy wind.

After all heated air and storms are over.

the same air is calm, fresh and like four-leaved clover.

Poison for those who want to take it for themselves.

With the luck they take from others, they take it from themselves.

The luck alone to find this clover, forty-thousand with only three.

It will give you more joy and love than all who call themselves free.


This man is not the one you shall ask.

For he is just another shattered flask.

But he is shattering himself.




The good can stay, what might be helping.

Only when you can think like a devil, you know what’s good for you.

But the children shouldn’t all have to learn the hard way.

Otherwise, why would I have given them all these things to learn.



Don’t see me as wise.

Don’t let me rise.

They wise don’t talk.



But they might sing as they walk.

When you walk all paths.

Let them guide you home.

But you have to walk all paths some time.

Don’t let the path decide,

your heart will know,

what it means to grow.



They didn’t do it for you to take a weapon.

They made it so you could walk till the end and refuse.

Didn’t you know it was a hope and not a given.

Those who see carry a weapon not because they enjoy it.

They do not praise the weapon nor the war.

They wish for it all to come to and end.

When they cry alone, in terror, next to the tent.

When they try to release the pain through a vent.

Theirs are these lands, carved into their hands.


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