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Like a Spriggan in a T-shirt
Dec. 16th, 2011 08:15 pmFor a friend, whose griefs and sorrows all but break my heart, betimes.
The music soars and dips and leaps and bounds and spins around - and I play my harp, my pipe, my voice of silver wood, in the stillness of your breaths; you never know I'm here, you never see, it's all one, all one to me.
When the flames leap up around your life, I play their beat while they smoke out the color of the world you lived in; someone must be there, there is a voice to witness all that falls upon the just, the pure, the robbers in the world.
At night when you fall to your knees, a voice must be to see your tears, a pipe will play to soothe your soul. When your life becomes naught more than pain, I will sing your sorrows from your bones, your blood, your skin, and hope the wind upon the harp pulls the tears from your very soul.
But one must be there, when your heart cracks, breaks, and snaps, someone must sing the song of your tears. When your castle crumbles, and though you be the laird of a thousand men no voice still your cry, a pipe will play your sorrows upon the dust and ashes of what you once loved.
At darkest moments, when the light itself leaves your eyes and heart, I will be there to draw the stars around you, to sing peace into your mind, for one must bear the price of grief, and it need not always be your burden.
Touch me, I will vanish, like the wind upon the mist; reach for me, I'll slip through your hands like water in the brook, like moonlight on the grasses in the twilit night. But when you have forgotten me, though a legion cries your name, ye shall remain but one soul, beneath the weight of all the world, and there will yet be a pipe to play your song.
And ye cannot call my name, for none will catch my form; and ye cannot feel my own body, for it is not; and ye cannot bring me from the darkness of the wilds, for there lies my own love--
but in the darkest nights, friend of friends, when e'en the moon will not rise to soothe your tortured soul, I will light your way. On the hardest days, when all you hear is mocking laughter, I will silence the air around you, and give peace through music, ne'er words. When your song dies on your lips, a wind will stir your harp; when the words fail you, and anger's all you see, the sun will burn it off, like the fog upon the sea; when the pain is too much to bear, I will fall on your sword, and let the world play your song.
The music soars and dips and leaps and bounds and spins around - and I play my harp, my pipe, my voice of silver wood, in the stillness of your breaths; you never know I'm here, you never see, it's all one, all one to me.
When the flames leap up around your life, I play their beat while they smoke out the color of the world you lived in; someone must be there, there is a voice to witness all that falls upon the just, the pure, the robbers in the world.
At night when you fall to your knees, a voice must be to see your tears, a pipe will play to soothe your soul. When your life becomes naught more than pain, I will sing your sorrows from your bones, your blood, your skin, and hope the wind upon the harp pulls the tears from your very soul.
But one must be there, when your heart cracks, breaks, and snaps, someone must sing the song of your tears. When your castle crumbles, and though you be the laird of a thousand men no voice still your cry, a pipe will play your sorrows upon the dust and ashes of what you once loved.
At darkest moments, when the light itself leaves your eyes and heart, I will be there to draw the stars around you, to sing peace into your mind, for one must bear the price of grief, and it need not always be your burden.
Touch me, I will vanish, like the wind upon the mist; reach for me, I'll slip through your hands like water in the brook, like moonlight on the grasses in the twilit night. But when you have forgotten me, though a legion cries your name, ye shall remain but one soul, beneath the weight of all the world, and there will yet be a pipe to play your song.
And ye cannot call my name, for none will catch my form; and ye cannot feel my own body, for it is not; and ye cannot bring me from the darkness of the wilds, for there lies my own love--
but in the darkest nights, friend of friends, when e'en the moon will not rise to soothe your tortured soul, I will light your way. On the hardest days, when all you hear is mocking laughter, I will silence the air around you, and give peace through music, ne'er words. When your song dies on your lips, a wind will stir your harp; when the words fail you, and anger's all you see, the sun will burn it off, like the fog upon the sea; when the pain is too much to bear, I will fall on your sword, and let the world play your song.
