Random I

Through meadows shall we stroll
And I shall find inside your soul
A place of hope, of peace, of being
Where all evil ought be fleeing

The dear minstrel, with his lute;
An Irishman with his flute.
Different music, different skill
But the same volume it can fill.

We are not conformists, of the like
Nor propagandists, with their strike
Of personnel, so unreal
Are they human, can they feel?

Why are we arguing, you and I?
We can't alone solve, by and by
Fighting will not bring peace
Just one thing, and that's decease.