These lands are heavy with
The weight of ages, like
Giants standing among men.
Like dreamers lay where they are
Lost in the eternal struggle with waking.
My darling moves in a way I
Cannot describe among the rotting
Giants teeth.
A hawk etched in stone flying
To her.
I wish that stones could weep,
For then they might weep for me.
Darling, you dance upon the broken
roots of ancient, time spun walls,
gleefully searching for treasure.
When you let out your precious breath
fly, I am content, for you have
found treasure, as have I.
This little razor of mine
has cleaned and cut,
sharpened on a mountains face
like some great carving knife.
This little razor of mine
I made it by hand,
and black stone from
fire, burning and bitter.
This little razor of mine
is not kind, is not nice,
is not stopped by steel
and smooth, cunning oils.
This little razor of mine
sits lightly, like ice
broken by sounds in
light, like nights.
This little razor of mine
was made by hand,
and in this hand it will stay
till the end, till the end of days.
As you walk along the beach,
Pondering treasure and the deeps,
You may happen to see (off to the side)
Tiny islands, lost in the tides.
Do you know the stories of these tiny lands
With their epics beneath the shifting sands?
How they rise with the dawn
And are lost to the sun.
Tales of king and pawn,
Legends of sword and gun.
What if I told you
That these stories are true,
And all your dreams lie just beyond view
And to walk down that path,
To see the islands in the tide,
One must put aside wrath
And bury pride?
If I told you these things,
And of men who were kings
And lost precious rings,
Lying golden beneath the shifting
These lands are heavy with
The weight of ages, like
Giants standing among men.
Like dreamers lay where they are
Lost in the eternal struggle with waking.
My darling moves in a way I
Cannot describe among the rotting
Giants teeth.
A hawk etched in stone flying
To her.
I wish that stones could weep,
For then they might weep for me.
Darling, you dance upon the broken
roots of ancient, time spun walls,
gleefully searching for treasure.
When you let out your precious breath
fly, I am content, for you have
found treasure, as have I.
This little razor of mine
has cleaned and cut,
sharpened on a mountains face
like some great carving knife.
This little razor of mine
I made it by hand,
and black stone from
fire, burning and bitter.
This little razor of mine
is not kind, is not nice,
is not stopped by steel
and smooth, cunning oils.
This little razor of mine
sits lightly, like ice
broken by sounds in
light, like nights.
This little razor of mine
was made by hand,
and in this hand it will stay
till the end, till the end of days.
As you walk along the beach,
Pondering treasure and the deeps,
You may happen to see (off to the side)
Tiny islands, lost in the tides.
Do you know the stories of these tiny lands
With their epics beneath the shifting sands?
How they rise with the dawn
And are lost to the sun.
Tales of king and pawn,
Legends of sword and gun.
What if I told you
That these stories are true,
And all your dreams lie just beyond view
And to walk down that path,
To see the islands in the tide,
One must put aside wrath
And bury pride?
If I told you these things,
And of men who were kings
And lost precious rings,
Lying golden beneath the shifting
Current Residence: A place where sand keeps getting in my shoes Favourite genre of music: Alt Personal Quote: Well, this quote is better than a sharp stick in the eye