| Seems we are to live our final days
|
| Far from the dwellings of men
|
| As flowing tides and shifting sands
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| Far from the bitter gaze of soul less man
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| In sorrow we fly from our loved ones
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| To die in the waters of the wild
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| My brethren can seek no shelter beneath these wings
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| Until dead men rise from their graves
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| How sad it is for me to see
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| My fathers fallen halls
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| Here once prideful men clashed as Gods
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| With veins aflame and hearts of thunder
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| Yet my fathers are long since dead and gone
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| And I with heart so heavy
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| And limbs so weary
|
| It seems our sun is all but dimmed
|
| And we your children have
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| Wandered for years
|
| And felt the cruel blast of freezing winds
|
| But the harshest blow of all to come…
|
| To return at last to an empty home
|
| «Adapted and altered from the Irish folklore tale
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| Of the Children of Lir, turned to swans and condemned
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| To roam for 300 years before returning home… to an empty
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| Home. |
| An interesting spine for an allegorical tale. |
| One of
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| Displacement, disenchantment and alienation… from this world
|
| And its ways. |
| Longing for another Age…
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| Another time, another place…» |