Ask The Time Away

Words & music by Young, E.

Lonely, cobbled footsteps,

wet with Spring,

are carried by the fog that’s rolling in.

I will always hear these things,

even when I’m not here.

A thousand stony voices,

hung in the air,

as heavy as the men that brought them there.

Must I always be laid bare,

when I think of you?

Well, I wish that I could hide it, at least in part,

with a dozen other colours, I’d paint my heart,

I could make the finest work of art but,

it’d soon fade.

Ask the time away,

why I was borne away,

pulled on by the strings of different puppeteers,

that don’t agree.

I could ask the trees if they knew,

just how deep their roots run,

or do they call themselves a home?

Well, the leaves were lost to Winter,

the nights grew long,

and I stoking up the embers with your song.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve no been gone,

just like I knew it would.

Spent some time away,

I don’t know what drove me on,

but a sickened sense of selfishness,

that breaks my will and floods the ground.

When you look upward do you see the same moon I see?

Or when I stare, do I stare alone?

Do they call themselves a home?

A group of five musicians playing instruments and singing together indoors. They include a standing bassist, a seated acoustic guitarist, a seated banjo player, a standing guitarist, and a standing violinist. The room has warm lighting, a mirror, and decorative curtains.