For we who dared to believe in the dreams of our forefathers.

on years,
on the dance of whispers.
where have we gone

when the merry pranksters
painted the soul
of a child to woman born
where dares she grow

from woodstock
she chanced to dream
but what did those
years, mean.

she thought they
would stay... forever.

but a child to woman grows
it’s all a body knows
and
it’s the stains
that paint
on one’s remains
as they ride the wind
sweet wind

and so,
still she rides
on tomorrow’s dreams
sweeter wind stitching
a woodstock witching
never...
and always free...

- jude