The Visitor
Words & music by Isembard, A. & Clements, A.
Oh, a traveller I have been,
Through steep woods and the city's din,
Eyes reflecting starlit skies,
And the soul beneath the skin.
Uncounted time this land was ours,
The air was wide and free,
When trees were young, before word and song,
Had echoed in the green.
Now I stoop and sweep through crowded eaves,
No louder than a sigh,
Where echoes roll through motes of smoke,
Writing laughter 'cross the sky.
To some we are the tattered night,
Let you who understand,
Raise your eyes by evening's light,
And find us near at hand.
When robin rings the close of day,
When the world below has dimmed,
The breeze uplifts and speaks once more,
To the soul beneath the skin.
Blessed are those little kings,
Their queens 'mid snowy eaves,
Who dart and dive on chilly wings,
And are sovereigns of the spring.
If spirits rise behind my eyes,
Love is their legacy,
And summer folds all hearts anew,
In golden mystery.
Yes, these fragile bones are all I own,
And the soul beneath the skin.
