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”