Alcair Ayende far al’Har (The Golden Freedom of the Hand)
The Hand’s Golden Freedom
 
A poem is but words,
But words with meaning.
 
Something with spirit of its own,
Something to steady the leaning.
 
It is the dew in the early morning,
Coating the green grass.
 
The sweet smell of a fall day,
As the seasons slowly pass.
 
The ripples in a pond,
Water as blue as the sky.
 
The courage of a weakling,
Who dares to ask why.
 
The love without boundaries,
One that knows no end.
 
The hopes and dreams of people,
Dreams... God send.
 
The words which know life,
But which know nothing at all.
 
The cowardice of the one,
Who quickly stands tall.
 
It knows the fresh scent of rain,
As the drops splash on the ground.
 
It feels the chill in the air,
Knows what simply can’t be found.
 
So you see... a poem is something,
A thing you cannot touch.
 
But a poem is something,
That can make you feel so much.
 
 
 
 This song is copyright © to Mike Davidson 1998