Friday, November 5, 2010

The Troubadour

A cold wind blows in from the cold, dark South,
the fresh wind blowing against my bare neck,
I stand  looking down at the flooding creek below,
fields greened by heavens above, trees whispering,
in the distance the birds are still settling their young,
I'll go to her tonight and sing to her in a soft voice,
plaintively calling "Come my beautiful darling to me."

I'll sing to her as I've sung so many times before
outside her window, curtain's drawn, lights down low,
praying to the Lord that she'll come speak to me
and take me in from the dark night, cold and wet,
out of the soaking rain to her bright warm hearth
and feed me with the nectar of her  gentle kisses,
take me in her fine warm arms and soothe my soul.

Oh! I long for those arms so warm, all embracing
that are now so far away across the muddy plains,
dark horizons, I can see her prancing, black dress
and pink shoes, a freshly picked flower in her hair,
dancing gracefully across the golden parquetry floor
with another, my heart, heavy with the thought of her
so far away smiling and happy, without me at her side.

I tune my old guitar before departing, my old friend
that has accompanied the song in my heart for her,
a tear trickles down my old, lined and weathered cheek
that longs to touch hers so soft and young, the hairs
bristle still as I think of the many times before I'd sung
love's song, bringing warmth to many a warm heart,
lighting the fires of a passion that I fear too will pass
with my singing, "Come my beautiful darling to me."
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