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The dissonant bells of the sea |
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Who are ringing the rhymes of the deep |
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As they sing of the ages asleep |
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Not so near or so far |
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And the old masters wind of the waves |
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Sped forth for the free men and slaves |
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Whispers of secrets it saves |
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And about whom they are |
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And the workings of sunshine and rain |
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And the visions they paint that remain |
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Pulsate from my soul through my brain |
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In a Spanish guitar |
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The beggar whom sits in the street |
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On his miserable throne of defeat |
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Envisions no wealth there to meet |
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Thinking nowhere is far |
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And the laughter of children employed |
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By the fantasies not yet destroyed |
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By the dogmas of those they avoid |
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Knowing not what they are |
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And the right and the wrong and insane |
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And the answers they cannot explain |
|
Pulsate from my soul through my brain |
|
In a Spanish guitar |
|
To play on a Spanish guitar |
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With the sun shining down where you are |
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Skipping and singing a bar |
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From the music around |
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Just to laugh through the columns of trees |
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To soar like a seagull in breeze |
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To stand in the rain if you please |
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Or to never be found |
