The violins cry out for cultural identity. As bullets still fly from klashnikov's. "The cold is coming." Sounds the whispers of suicidal writers. Innocence is manipulated, developed, then kills. Released from hate. The defiance, awe inspiring. As caterpillar to butterfly, let the metamorphosis happen. In a white stoned building I see lions in crowns moving in the flickering of candle light. What lurks in such beauty? I ask the night sky. Beauty draws lines, matures then dies. I'm released from your resenting eye's. As a golden thread is plucked from the fabric of an empire. He isnt anything or he's everything. As nation stands by, upon their King. As caterpillar to butterfly, let the metamorphosis happen.