Empty all these troubles out my mind,
All I want is peace.
Stop these talks behind my back,
All I want is peace.
I try and take away all these thoughts....
But its like my memories are whispering in my ear.
I'm at my final straw...
I have no one to help,
No one to call..
I have been tough like a rock
strong through it all
But I'm about done.....
this weight I have on my back feels like a ton.
It's like I can't even breathe
I guess I will never have what I want,
What I need...
All I ask for is a little peace.

The magic of religion
brings hope to many a man
it is what guides us
without it we are lost with no plan

It is the light clearing darkness
bringing sight to the blind
leading us toward the right path
bringing joy for us to find

Yet through all of these miracles there is no peace
different beliefs bring war
martyrs die on the daily
people end, moving no more

We must move past hatred
the truth behind religion is not anger
the meaning behind religion is not war

It is faith
It is peace

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

What curious and contradictory things,
The cold kiss of winter brings.
The withered soul of Autumn sets,
Awakening a world of bitterness and regrets.

Cruel Irony oversees,
As the earthy time of doom and gloom,
Is also the time of Christmas trees,
And the son of Man’s empty tomb.

A choir of angels joyously sing,
As winter’s breath claims homeless lives,
And a band of sleigh bells festively ring,
As corporate greed flourishes, and thrives.

With its subtle promise of bright tomorrows,
Winter stores life’s greatest sorrows.

When out of a clear sky, the bright

Sky over Japan, they tumbled the

death of light,

For a moment, it's said, there was

brilliance sword-sharp,

A dazzle of white, and then dark.

Into the cavernous blackness, as

home to hell,

Agonies crowded; and high above

in the swell

Of the gentle tide of the sky, lucid

and fair,

Men floated serenely as angels

disporting there.

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".

By the fond name that was his own and mine,
The last upon his lips that strove with doom,
He called me and I saw the light assume
A sudden glory and around him shine;
And nearer now I saw the laureled line
Of the august of Song before me loom,
And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom,
That whispered and forbade me to repine.
And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank
Out of the stars and faded as a flame,
And down the night, on clouds of glory, came
The battle seraphs halting rank on rank;
And lifted heavenward to heroic peace,
He passed and left me hope beyond surcease.

Just like you, I couldn't wait to leave this place.
We drew lines across the map from point A to
anywhere we'd rather be but here.
We kept bags packed in the backseat, ready
To leave at a moment's notice, if we decided
Memphis called our names louder than
our worried mothers and fathers could scream.

You and I put ten thousand miles on that car;
We knew we were getting nowhere, but
we couldn't get there fast enough.
You told me we were born with gypsy blood,
ready to run.
I almost thought we were scared to stay in this **** town,
with the cobweb legacies and long-standing rivalries.

We weren't a tragic Romeo and Juliet, we could have been
together forever in a white house with a picket fence.
We could have had a family here, two kids and a hound dog,
beer on Friday nights with our friends
who swore they knew we were meant to be from the moment we met
when I was in love with your best friend and you
were scared to touch me.

I was a hurricane.
You were colder weather.
We had a whirlwind time, tearing up the country
and leaving our traces all over trailer parks.
You made fun of my metaphors, then told your worst story
that ended like our relationship-
without warning, with unexplained wildlife
and scabs on your knees.

This is not a mystery.
There is no hidden meaning here, to be examined
by critics and explained.
There is only country music lyrics and the lives of petty thieves.
This is not an expose on the triumph of human souls.
This is you and me.

This is fishing in the dark, caving in a blizzard,
running from the man with a banjo.
This is skinny-dipping in freezing water under the cliff
when you couldn't get me to dive in
and you proposed from the water.
I was so surprised, I fell.

This is not a mystery.
We are not an allegory or a parable
about the fallacies of human nature and the transience of lust.
We are lost souls: the classic drifters, who were born too late
to be outlaws.
You said this is progress,
the Industrial Revolution and the end of us.

I stood you up, and I'm sorry.
You had made your bed, so I ran
and you slept with her instead.
You found salvation in the Bible, while I had a
shot glass revival.
There was silence on the telephone lines-
I couldn't dial the number, and you never tried to call.

We were born to run, and we were scared to stay.
I stood you up, and I'm sorry.
You never loved me, and you're sorry.
All we ever say is sorry. You knew I stood you up, but
you were too proud to ask me to stay.
We kept the car packed because we were born to run,
but we always turned around just before we hit the interstate.

We were born to run, with gypsy souls and anxious hearts.
Fresno, California called our names, and we knew we could hit Memphis
in less than a tank of gas and half a day.
This is not a mystery, this is simply the fact
that I left before you made up your mind.
You had made your bed, but you weren't ready to sleep.
And this isn't about you. It's not a mystery to be deciphered.
I'm just tired of driving, and I wish you'd called.