graze my voice with that gaze and I promise to spurt out for you a song, like the innocent brook that in drunken excitement makes his way through the cedar forest of the summer that you gifted me with your distant love… I hear they are locking down the rest of the doors too. I hear they abhor the dance of ecstasy… I hear they took down the poetry that proclaimed nothing but beauty and pain… to those who had been hiding aspirations of situating wilderness within the cartons of notes and drafts for their upcoming books and papers, I have much to say, but to you who refuses to pour upon my charred lips the touch of your most tender gaze, I have only a song… graze my voice with that gaze and I promise to spurt out that song, only for you…
Story Of The Footloose 