the dissonant bells of the sea who are ringing the rhymes of the deep as they sing of the ages asleep not so near or so far and the old masters wind of the waves sped forth for the free men and slaves whispers of secrets it saves and about whom they are and the workings of sunshine and rain and the visions they paint that remain pulsate from my soul through my brain in a spanish guitar the beggar whom sits in the street on his miserable throne of defeat envisions no wealth there to meet thinking nowhere is far and the laughter of children employed by the fantasies not yet destroyed by the dogmas of those they avoid knowing not what they are and the right and the wrong and insane and the answers they cannot explain pulsate from my soul through my brain in a spanish guitar to play on a spanish guitar with the sun shining down where you are skipping and singing a bar from the music around just to laugh through the columns of trees to soar like a seagull in breeze to stand in the rain if you please or to never be found