Beyond the Clouds

whirling around in circular motion the music climbs higher in the players bed chamber. Flutes whistle and cymbals clang faster and faster with the rising heat of the whirling spirit going round and round to the same bloody song. The furious fiddle fuming away jerking and urging all in the game to hurl down their gauntlets and take up the sword to separate the smoke from what's really there. They cut and they slash all the curtains of hope, shred it to peices in one single stroke, to wake too late to love's crying shame, and witness in shock, all the horror and pain.

too late to redo the bed that was made and slept in by him - her lover and maid, a new day has broken and silence has begged forgiveness and pardon to all that was said in anger and jest the moon cast its shadow on the new night of year twenty and ten - what hope, what chance, what fortune befalls those who are wicked and caught in the thralls of madness and rage? In the midst of the fires of fathomless passions a tiny light shines on the steaming wet spires.