Post by Requiem on Nov 27, 2009 12:28:14 GMT -5
'You used to tell me, of another land
Where the darkness never stood a chance.
You used to tell me, of a lonely girl
Trapped within the corners of that world.
And she stood one day, by the open door
Looking out on all she'd never touch.
And she saw that day, what she'd never know
Her heart breaking in its gilded cage.
You used to tell me, of the little bird
That sang in the tree outside her door.
You used to tell me, that it sung so sweet
Her soul was lifted up and carried far.
Carried far, far away, to see it all,
Every tree and creature she'd never seen.
Carried far, far away, her body left
Without a breath, without a word.
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
You never tell me, now, anymore
Of the girl and her lonely stance.
You never tell me of the bird
Or the song that it sung to her.
You never tell me of that land
That shunned the darkness
That trapped the light.
You never tell me.
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
Have you given it all up?
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
A song of death.'
It was a strange song that filled the archives, with that quiet power that some harpers had. So soft, so quiet, and yet everything - even the sounds from without - seemed to still to listen. A strange song of mingled hope and melancholy until one couldn't be separated from the other and they somehow wove into the same feeling. Stranger still was the singer. Any who knew him would have found it odd for him to sing such a song, much less actually write it, but that was the truth of the matter.
The small mountain of efficiently scribed documents had been left on the table, the harper perched in the windowsill and staring out into the pale light of dawn. He always left Dmisk back at the barracks before doing chores...which he preferred to do in the last hours before dawn and perhaps the first few of the day. The wher was not so possessive that he protested the absence of His for an hour or two, though he always seemed to wake when Dmitri returned at mid-morning. Not a personable, loving creature by any means, he liked to touch the boy while he slept, if only with one claw.
Dmitri shook himself. He was in a queer mood this dawning. Drawing out his pipes, he glanced questioningly at the archivist standing not far away, watching. She nodded, curiosity in her eyes. All of them had drifted into this part of the archives, some pretending at work while a few didn’t even bother to do that much. They just watched and listened. The sad little tune began to fill the archives. Only his pipe playing was passable, and it was the technique that was rough. The feeling behind the music…had always been there.
Where the darkness never stood a chance.
You used to tell me, of a lonely girl
Trapped within the corners of that world.
And she stood one day, by the open door
Looking out on all she'd never touch.
And she saw that day, what she'd never know
Her heart breaking in its gilded cage.
You used to tell me, of the little bird
That sang in the tree outside her door.
You used to tell me, that it sung so sweet
Her soul was lifted up and carried far.
Carried far, far away, to see it all,
Every tree and creature she'd never seen.
Carried far, far away, her body left
Without a breath, without a word.
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
You never tell me, now, anymore
Of the girl and her lonely stance.
You never tell me of the bird
Or the song that it sung to her.
You never tell me of that land
That shunned the darkness
That trapped the light.
You never tell me.
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
Have you given it all up?
Are you that girl, in that land,
Trapped and waiting for your bird to sing?
I'll sing for you a song of freedom
A song of peace.
A song of death.'
It was a strange song that filled the archives, with that quiet power that some harpers had. So soft, so quiet, and yet everything - even the sounds from without - seemed to still to listen. A strange song of mingled hope and melancholy until one couldn't be separated from the other and they somehow wove into the same feeling. Stranger still was the singer. Any who knew him would have found it odd for him to sing such a song, much less actually write it, but that was the truth of the matter.
The small mountain of efficiently scribed documents had been left on the table, the harper perched in the windowsill and staring out into the pale light of dawn. He always left Dmisk back at the barracks before doing chores...which he preferred to do in the last hours before dawn and perhaps the first few of the day. The wher was not so possessive that he protested the absence of His for an hour or two, though he always seemed to wake when Dmitri returned at mid-morning. Not a personable, loving creature by any means, he liked to touch the boy while he slept, if only with one claw.
Dmitri shook himself. He was in a queer mood this dawning. Drawing out his pipes, he glanced questioningly at the archivist standing not far away, watching. She nodded, curiosity in her eyes. All of them had drifted into this part of the archives, some pretending at work while a few didn’t even bother to do that much. They just watched and listened. The sad little tune began to fill the archives. Only his pipe playing was passable, and it was the technique that was rough. The feeling behind the music…had always been there.
