*Blow, winds, blow
He wanders in and out of dream scapes,
Seeking refuge from the nameless ache,
The burn of a thousand cloudless days.
The tumbleweed of his joy blows in the dunes of neglect,
Vaguely rooted in the sands of discontent.
Blow, winds, blow!
Shift the sand beneath his feet,
Tumble him to the river of rejoice,
Where his seeds can bury deep
In the fertile soil of complete.*
Walk on, Lonely Pilgrim
Would that you would go a spell further,
Fight a round harder, walk a mile longer,
Perhaps you will see the clear waters,
The soaring vistas, the spring flowers.
Sandstorms blind your eyes and sting your throat,
Your music lost into the wind.
Walk on, lonely pilgrim,
Walk on, and meet me
In the green valley,
It's just 'round the bend.
I've a song to play for you!
Welcome Song for the Weary Traveler
With unsure steps, tread the ground,
Gaze out with open eyes.
Cast away all fear and doubt.
Let the music sing your soul!
This river will wash your bedrock,
Polish the rough stones of your longing,
Flow away your worried mind.
When this love-seed settles in the soil of your heart,
Your rose will bloom, in fertile field,
Where nightingale warbles its melodious tune.
Lay down your head upon alfalfa pillow,
Let the music take you high,
Where daffodil dreams and mystic streams
Sing you sweetest lullaby.
Now close your eyes and feel the pull
This song, the lodestone to your heart,
Drawing out your own sweet tune.
Hear gentle clouds that roll on by,
Smell sweet the scented breeze in sky,
Feel the love,
Let go,
Now fly
Lonely Pilgrim Dreams
The lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
As minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
He struggled to wake from his trance like state,
As he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
Wondering how he had found himself
Wandering in green valleys,
How he had been so easily lulled to sleep.
He wondered, too, if dreams are ever real,
And what he would see at morning's light.
Minstrel sang on, into the night,
Singing all good things into his heart,
Breathing love into his pillow,
Playing for light,
Playing the tune of her heart strings that night.
She was not sure what song she sang anymore,
But wanted to sing,
And sing some more.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
*Blow, winds, blow
He wanders in and out of dream scapes,
Seeking refuge from the nameless ache,
The burn of a thousand cloudless days.
The tumbleweed of his joy blows in the dunes of neglect,
Vaguely rooted in the sands of discontent.
Blow, winds, blow!
Shift the sand beneath his feet,
Tumble him to the river of rejoice,
Where his seeds can bury deep
In the fertile soil of complete.*
Walk on, Lonely Pilgrim
Would that you would go a spell further,
Fight a round harder, walk a mile longer,
Perhaps you will see the clear waters,
The soaring vistas, the spring flowers.
Sandstorms blind your eyes and sting your throat,
Your music lost into the wind.
Walk on, lonely pilgrim,
Walk on, and meet me
In the green valley,
It's just 'round the bend.
I've a song to play for you!
Welcome Song for the Weary Traveler
With unsure steps, tread the ground,
Gaze out with open eyes.
Cast away all fear and doubt.
Let the music sing your soul!
This river will wash your bedrock,
Polish the rough stones of your longing,
Flow away your worried mind.
When this love-seed settles in the soil of your heart,
Your rose will bloom, in fertile field,
Where nightingale warbles its melodious tune.
Lay down your head upon alfalfa pillow,
Let the music take you high,
Where daffodil dreams and mystic streams
Sing you sweetest lullaby.
Now close your eyes and feel the pull
This song, the lodestone to your heart,
Drawing out your own sweet tune.
Hear gentle clouds that roll on by,
Smell sweet the scented breeze in sky,
Feel the love,
Let go,
Now fly
Lonely Pilgrim Dreams
The lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
As minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
He struggled to wake from his trance like state,
As he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
Wondering how he had found himself
Wandering in green valleys,
How he had been so easily lulled to sleep.
He wondered, too, if dreams are ever real,
And what he would see at morning's light.
Minstrel sang on, into the night,
Singing all good things into his heart,
Breathing love into his pillow,
Playing for light,
Playing the tune of her heart strings that night.
She was not sure what song she sang anymore,
But wanted to sing,
And sing some more.
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