Sing to me that ancient song
woven in strands of sorrow.
Sing to me that highest peak,
above the mountains of tomorrow.
In silent echoes through the night
cast over in shrouded black,
I hear your voice in its painful crack.
And in that sleepless midnight hour
rolling like the ocean’s tide,
your hymn rings softly with the wind,
its lyric, open and wide.
Bearing tears like swift, grey rain,
through the hidden veil
beyond those seas, it shall ever sail.
But all I can do is hearken
and in my heart all I can see
is the bloody twilight forgotten,
shining high above me.
Its waterfall of cold regret
crashes beneath that silent lake,
crashing for your empty sake.
All and all I’ll read your rhyme
and perhaps I can understand
how you escape between the lines,
and find your peaceful land.
I’ll follow you there one day,
and perhaps I’ll sing along.
Perhaps I’ll join your lonely song.
Sing to me that ancient song
woven in strands of lost desire. It burns
upon the logs of hopeless love, that
never-ceasing fire.
Let it ring forevermore,
an anthem for this night,
until it finds the morning light.
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