Pristine white with a horn of gold
Behind those eyes are stories to be told
She lives in an Angel forest, free
She beacons the dormant dreamer in me
For her, mountains, men would climb
To hear her song, an ancient wind chime
She sleeps beneath the Albino tree
and cries for someone to find the key
She's sorrow and sweet rapture
Yet impossible to capture
Am I wrong or was she born?
An ancient elusive, Unicorn.
August 3, 1997