They tell me that the wind is here, and so close to my heart, On the whispered breeze I fly, and swiftly I do part. Far away to another land I am, and happy to be so Off to the mystical village where golden trumpets blow. Delightful ringing of the bells so fragile are the chimes, They take me to the another world and give to me the rhymes. . . The Prim Weeper Wisdom is crying in the lonely streets desiring a listener . . . No one hears The vent of Wisdom sighs with golden tears.
Wisdom bears great treasure to make the weak grow strong.
She is needed most urgently Before ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Omnipotent, the core of sanity and reason seeking desperately to feed and find all the lost and empty souls And to open the eyes of the shallow and blind. Yet she's true, like ice, like fire. In the dime stores and bus stations, People talk of situations, Read books, repeat quotations, Draw conclusions on the wall. And that failure's no success at all.