it isn’t a thing to think, he said
just a gazing, the surface and the light,
the endless unseen possibilities
and oh, aren’t we so absolutely here now!
the water gently heaving, or frozen underfoot
of all the days, these days shine
like fireflies in the dark
a lighthouse beam through fog
Desert flowers in bloom
As disparate oases
and then there was the gardener
green thumb and a boon to blossoms
Hers alone, the forge and the fire
the rain to things that grow
but where is she now?
our gardens all writhen and greyed
her secrets lost to days glimpsed but not grasped
no map to show the way
And so we watch the sails unfurl
bare and born to the wind and sun
gazing out beyond the brake
the surface and the light
all the days shone brightly then
when we were that what wept for the sea
Written by Colin Stetson
Spoken by Iarla O’Lionaird
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