Merry
Merry, the sailor
Who kisses the empty
Face of the night
While silently drifting
Through time
He who hears the chanteys
That come from the tide
And embraced by the waves
Remains out of sight
In the midst of it all
Merry, the plowman
Who crosses the field
As if they were one
Oblivious to all that
Still shall come
And staring at the seeds
And the shades left by the sun
Feels the grief of the land
And the joy of the run
In the midst of it all
Merry, the drifter
Who carries no sin
Simply by knowing
That sin’s but another
Form of longing
As the day grows dim
And the earth keeps a-burnin’
The wanderer’s whisper
Sounds light as a wing
In the midst of it all
Merry, the minstrel
Who sings as the prairies
Emerge from the mist
With clouds in his voice
And ropes on his fists
He who bows to time
While aiming at its twists
And embraces above
Sinking into the abyss
In the midst of it all
Merry, the free man