The fields of joy can be truly felt,

When the sun lays the land,

And the night fills the sighs that we make when joyous.

To crest the love by the idle spring,

And smile at the moon that hangs above us as a milky cloud.

And wonder to the stars which might fall in burning flame,

Upon that field where you lay your pillow.

My slumber can never wish for a better place.

With complexity it might cumber, but then the gleaming of the universe will put a falling hand on your brow in that field for the sight which you have earned to see.

For the yearning in our sleep will never see the light of day; until we reach for them through the stars.

May that be the sight of the joyous fields,


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