I know you’re gonna touch the sun
I know you’re part of everyone
I know you’re never too far
To send the “three’s” on down to meI know you’re on your way home
Let it be
The way that we growLook at all the time
Well I know we had the time
All the time and we’re still inside the time
All the time well I know we
shared the time
Yours and mine and we’re still
inside the time
At the time and I know we
have time
Hanging in the time as we’re
Passing down the time. …I know your on you’re way home
Let it be
The way that we growMostly Autumn
A Spanish guitar sounds in the background, a gypsy violin plays sensual melodies of times untold. Uilleann Pipes play a dream of touching tenderness from over the hills. She dances the pain away amidst a cloud of black cotton. She seems untouched, she seems so far away. The violins grow in passion, burning the sorrow. The pipes lift the spirit, and with tears in our eyes, we see her dance away the pain tonight. We found her one evening in a cave, deep in the woods. We thought of her as a fairy’s child, a lost lullaby. caught by the strings of mortality. In sweet words she spoke, capturing our tiered hearts with her tenderness. We sheltered her then, we loved her then, we love her still. She never spoke a name. Yet it brakes my heart to see her part. I wish I could embrace her, I wish sorrow had not come to us, to her, the moonchild.
She goes away in a passionate lament, played by the people who inhabit this land. We crowned her our dream, we painted her with fine watercolors and fresh flowers from the first spring. We adorned and adored her, and now she goes away, dancing away the pain tonight. I wish I could join her in her mystic dance, but she is up so high in the clouds.
No, she never spoke a name, she never said she loved me, but I told her so every night. No she never spoke a word I could comprehend, but all her words were sweet and soft, just like the touch of her hand. She never had a name, but I called her Ana. My sweet Ana that now fades away. What will be of me, without you? Who will sweetly call me in words unspoken?
What will become of our hungry hearts, of me, of Mia?
