hard to watch and hard to do. This was the reply that arose when my daughter told me she felt i was 'dead.' It's called Mummy's Not Dead (or Conscious Karma).

mummy's not dead
mummy's not dead
although her blood runs in your head
and the ground is swirling red

for many years
through your tears
she slept unconscious in her pain
blinded by the wind and rain
of seasons past and yet to be
masking her reality
until the pain was just too much to bear
and she turned to the wolf within his lair
fangs bared, his fiery eyes ablaze
prowling in the mists of shadowed days
a wounded creature, hungry to taste
thirsty to share
the crimson river running through his hair

but mummy's not dead
mummy's not dead
although her blood runs in your head
and the ground is swirling red

she feared to see
the entity
the crazed wolf bent on suffering
drinking from a bloodied spring
to keep aflow the gushing vein
the cycle of relentless pain
and feeding on the darkest hours of night
forever famished, restless in his plight
courage it took to hold him in embrace
lie down beside him, meet him face-to-face
look deep into his tormented eyes
mirrors of his pain,
his sorrow, and of her own disguise

but mummy's not dead, etc.

reflected in
those pools of sin
she saw the fangs, the long grey ears
the beast that stalked her through the years
she saw the blood, she saw the lie
the mask that told her it is I
and in her seeing a conscious death was born
an awakening to her true being without form
of purity, of timeless love and light
where all that is knows neither day nor night
nor hope, nor fear, nor joy nor pain
in this new dawn
a first dewdrop born again, again

so mummy's not dead
mummy's not dead
although her blood runs in your head
and the ground is swirling red

with recognition
came contrition
for treading blind the karmic wheel
for seeing the phantom wolf as real
though a necessary illusion
to show the truth within delusion
so as the wolf lay fraught in his demise
her tears flowed with the river of his sighs,
her suffering, ebbing away
to the crimsoned banks of yesterday
and in his dying she felt the pain
of all seasons
and in her crying, no-one to blame

mummy's not dead, etc.

this was the calm
this was the balm
to love, forgive herself and all
for sleeping in the monster's thrall
for looking through his tortured eyes
in ignorance of clear blue skies
and in the healing her salt tears bathed his head
cleansed the gaping wound of eternal bloodshed
and in his leaving, softly there
she kissed the source of her despair
and her lips were stained a crimson red
that it be said
only in death lies freedom, in freedom bondage dead

so mummy's not dead,
mummy's not dead
although her blood runs in your head
in fact she's very much alive
in consciousness does she survive

Thank God for the resurrection - and the daffodils. Happy Easter!