What's taking form
Is not a lifetime
What's taking shape
Is not a space-state
What's circling
Is not circular
It's in the road
Not yet ascended
What's whispering
Is not a rational mind
It's in the meadow
It won't walk to you
What is Christic
Can't be recognized
What's streching out
Is not the kingdom
Hear the children sing:
O, the devil is a flower
Plucked from a cloud
What's shrouded
Is not mouldering
What is written
Never to be read aloud
What's defiled
Is not an environment
What is raised
Is not troubled
It may be golden
But not luminous
The starer smiles
The smiler stares
What is marching
Is not people
Hear the children sing:
O, the devil is a flower
Plucked from a cloud
What's gathering
Is not a future plan
What's coming into view
Is not old or new
Hear the children sing:
O, the devil is a flower
Plucked from a cloud