The Soldier

 

A weaver’s daughter never meant to weave

Seized from my arms by traditions old

And carried long from our home

Far from the fair golden rows at Carvahal

 

A noble’s son meant for royal court things

Wished only simple days with one loved

I couldn’t stand on my own

So wandered boroughs beyond sweet Carvahal

Then took up arms of my fold

And cut down men I’ve never known

 

Woke to the drone of a grey soaked morning

A herald calling my withered name

Hailing “From life has she flown,

She brought asleep cold and ‘lone to Carvahal”

 

A cannon fires and I see her standing

Beckoning me down the last long road

So will you carry my bones

Back to the green clovered groves ‘round Carvahal?

Oh would you carry my bones

So she won’t lie under stone, alone?

She sings, “Come then, man, behold

The white woods rising below New Carvahal

Let earth reclaim now her own

Heed not what cannot yet be borne home”

“We are”

 

Come Carvahal, relive in me

Color the love that is, will be

Herald of light, of siren song

Pull back the shades of everlong

Proffer me to a state of grace

Ransom me from the war embrace

“We Are”