Trespassing On History


What others claim to be the unknown,
Older souls call the free range
There’s no pick in that hand
Fingertips trespass each string
As the music plays passionately
Like the shepherd boy David
Strumming the harp to soothe King Solomon
Music notes reach the heart,
And the tunes heal the mind’s horrors
There’s an ancient, loving Spirit
In which some still question the origins
Living inside each and every Artist
With infinite landscapes to paint,
A million and more sheets of music to be written,
And seven billion and rising stories to tell,
Some call that in itself freedom
So get out into the World and start trespassing
What others claim to be the unknown,
Older souls call the free range

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