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