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In the dawning, wakening hour |
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He'll lift his head and brush his eyes with gentle strokes |
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That will only blindly mislead him |
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Into the first day of creation which he only sees in limitation |
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Now he sits upon his empty bed |
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His heart is warm, his heart is full and he can see |
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But it is impossible for him to retain me |
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For his arms are without form, he cannot know the word |
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As his mind cries out absurd |
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Now he's standing inside the doorway |
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He is afraid but he believes all that he sees on the floor |
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Where everything is merging |
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And pictures he sees are tragic as he begins to believe in magic |
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Now he lies down in a hole |
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Down in the ground where it is cold and now he knows |
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Now he realizes his biggest mistake |
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That he never had to grow old, and he never had to grow cold and die |
