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The bird had silver wings, my friends, |
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And reached out for the sky; |
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It found its wings were broken, |
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It had lost the right to fly. |
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The pink-eyed salamander |
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Changed its colours for the day; |
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It changed from white to purest gold |
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And left the stag at bay. |
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Now I am but a p;oor man |
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In the apple blossom state, |
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I choose to fly where'er I please, |
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The stag must needs a mate. |
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My golden salamander, |
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You must take me as I am. |
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I cannot change my colours, |
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I am but a simple man. |
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The golden salamander |
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Had become the rite of spring; |
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The silver bird made promises |
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That scarcely meant a thing; |
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They told the wicked huntsman |
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Where the stag had run to rest. |
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Now the elderly survivor |
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Knew this was not for the best; |
|
He opened up his heart |
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And prayed for peace for all mankind. |
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He asked a fortune teller |
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But found out that she was blind. |
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The clouds were passing over, |
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There was little sign of rain; |
|
The sun was slowly rising |
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From its slumberdown again. |
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The stag had run to cover |
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In a copse beside the lake; |
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The huntsman broke the silence |
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And the birds began to wake. |
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The fortune teller smiled |
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As the survivor spoke of fate. |
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He thanked her for her interest |
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But knew it was too late. |
