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Dancing on the feet of a miracle |
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while winter's growing cold |
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Life seems almost cynical |
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in the gardens of green and gold |
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While the apples of eden are calling me |
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I sometimes just can't believe |
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That man was made a replica |
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of someone elses dream |
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Away to where the rainbow's just a stoney throw away |
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Where kings and queens assemble, just to greet the world and say: |
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Bear witness to the princess as she lights her precious dome, |
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and bluebells call you home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling-- |
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home to all the broken melodies |
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is a home where all the sunny skies |
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Rime wihtout a reason endlessly |
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just look at how the butter flies |
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When the evensong sing through the mezzanine |
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and the birds interrupt the trees |
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They were talking in the forest hatching up a scheme |
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When winter comes they'll up and leave |
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To find the swirling oceans made of conscience and of clay |
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The weight of all this nonsense we must carry down the way |
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Towards the great reunion of the apple and the crow |
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Come on it's time to go... |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Tell the tree of sunlight, tell the day of rain |
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Listen for the flutter, rising up again |
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Better off without a suitcase is the mind |
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Grasping at a moon beam, counting out the time |
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I was only eight when magic touched my ear |
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Now it seems the only thing I hear |
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Is the everlasting chorus of a neverlasting dream |
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Locked inside my fantasy |
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So listen up campers along with the rain |
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the promise of sunshine again |
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With all that is pretty and all that is blue |
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the bluebell shines for you |
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Now somebody said my blank endeavour |
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to the creatures that walk on the moon |
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In time you'll see the world at the speed of light |
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as we all set stones in bloom |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Home, home, bluebells calling home |
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Dancing on the feet of a miracle |
|
while winter's growing cold |
|
Life seems to be almost cynical |
|
in gardens of green and gold |
|
Dancing on the feet of a miracle |
|
while winter's growing cold |
|
Life seems to be almost cynical |
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in gardens of green and gold |
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The light has come to free this song of anything that goes |
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The featherless magician shakes his head and tells us slow |
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The poet down on main street can't believe his sunken eyes |
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A calling from the skies! |
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I've never seen a brighter sun |
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Than the one the crow incorporated |
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Into his painted rivers three |
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As the apple reunites the broken melody |
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Blue is my direction home |
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into a world where every ghostly figure |
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Flutter round the cosmic tare |
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as we're dancing on the feet of miracles everywhere-- |
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Where do flowers go, when all is said and done |
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They hope and pray, to find a second sun |
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With golden shores, and amber painted skies |
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Where poets run, and bluebells call home... |
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I've never seen a better day |
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than the one that drove the coulds away |
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Forever from this holy earth |
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and the bluebells simple words just resting in the dirt |
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And finally it seems to me |
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this has got to be the place indeed |
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I'm just sitting in the gardens green |
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watch the blue above and simply dream... |
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my dreamy dream |
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Where do flowers go, when all is said and done |
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They hope and pray, to find a second sun |
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With golden shores, and amber painted skies |
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Where poets run, and bluebells call home... |
