|
Clark |
|
The warm wind will not blow tonight |
|
For the the fog enshrouds |
|
The landing light |
|
As she said she might have heard |
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A bell tolling |
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Though a gold ship |
|
Aails her clouds and dreams |
|
Through the crashing seas |
|
She finds it seems |
|
That the shore she's looking for |
|
Is hardly showing |
|
Oh what is this song she's singing |
|
Oh could it be for someone, |
|
Bringing her, her everything |
|
Her paralytic agencies |
|
Twist their tongues into philosophies |
|
As petite Colombe asks only |
|
What she's been stealing |
|
The tapestries that drape her walls |
|
And the heroes she has witnessed fall |
|
While the hallway leaves them |
|
All blank to the ceiling |
|
Oh again this song she's singing |
|
Oh could it be for someone, |
|
Bringing her, her every dream |
|
Beneath the deep and broken wall |
|
The reflecting glass of time it falls |
|
Through the crack she said |
|
She heard the ocean calling |
|
The foghorn cries profanity |
|
At the master of insanity |
|
As she watches ruins, neading me and sobbing |
|
Oh again this song she's singing |
|
Oh could it be for someone, |
|
Bringing her, her everything. |
