As the bell must strike the hour
as the west must stab the sun
so our hearts
must heed the flow
of deeper tides that run
far beyond the bare indifference
that prosperity esteems
where the spirit
raves and dances
through our very veins
At winters edge you found me
by the fields of wild gold
my hands still filled with ashes
from fires long cold
you pulled me from the wreckage
of bitterness and blame
flung open the page
and put some flesh on
the bones of my dreams
On the streets
the blossom snowing
and the drum is beating slow
and I hear you speak so clear
well I