Gypsy Hymn #117
Pale and stormy autumn steals
on the afternoon before my way.
Blackbirds cross the empty fields,
flying low way down the long highway.
Smoke rises on a low sky.
The windows watch as I walk by.
Eyes grown tired of living
find themselves just wishing they could fly.
Withered stalks in rows of brown,
old soldiers who lost the fight to time,
stand and wait to be cut down,
obeying their orders with resign.
Naked trees stretch out their arms
to keep a favorite son from harm
but I'll leave their cold embrace
to find another some place that is warm.
I can't give you promises --
at least not any I could really keep.
The boy's got to be honest
as to that moving feeling in his feet.
If you'd know me at all
then you'd count the leaves that fall
'cause I get restless sitting
hearing that clock tock-ticking on the wall.
The wind blows out the moon and stars
of a night grown old before its time.
Thoughts of one girl on my heart --
I once sang her my rough lullaby --
they leave me wondering when
I'll see where the pavement ends.
Will I find the finish
to be the beginning once again?
Rough cut video posted to YouTube 10/22/09. Click here to watch the video.