Clair de Lune
Your sound is the tinkling of a shop bell on a rainy day. Insofar as we both shall go on this adventure, I'm only suggesting we think of the things that matter.
A brilliant flash of liquid gold that rolls and glides over and over again..The glass blower's callused hands are charred and graceful. His composition a masterpiece of craftsmanship and melody. He smiles behind his blackened skin, and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Your sound is the beating wave against the shore. As long as I'm with you, we'll stop to appreciate who really matters.
He is too little for his clothes, this bright-eyed, scraggly haired boy. He stands on tiptoe, his feet come out of his shoes, exposing his grayed socks. Crossing his arms on the windowsill, he rests his head to one side against them. His eyes are wide and alert. The ocean sprawls before him, and he feels like a King, surveying his kingdom with a supreme sense of pride and responsibility. He knows the ocean is calmest before a storm. He glances behind him at the enormous searchlight. His father gone, he rolls up his sleeves and prepares himself for the night. And the clouds roll in...
You are the sound I want to hear more than anything in the world.
You are the humming of glass, and the whisper of the breeze. You are the sound of a child's laughter, of a man's weeping, of a woman's longing. You play across my daylight and seep into my skin. You're the sound of a daydream. You're the sound of the heavenly spheres..dancing and singing across their empty stage.
A brilliant flash of liquid gold that rolls and glides over and over again..The glass blower's callused hands are charred and graceful. His composition a masterpiece of craftsmanship and melody. He smiles behind his blackened skin, and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Your sound is the beating wave against the shore. As long as I'm with you, we'll stop to appreciate who really matters.
He is too little for his clothes, this bright-eyed, scraggly haired boy. He stands on tiptoe, his feet come out of his shoes, exposing his grayed socks. Crossing his arms on the windowsill, he rests his head to one side against them. His eyes are wide and alert. The ocean sprawls before him, and he feels like a King, surveying his kingdom with a supreme sense of pride and responsibility. He knows the ocean is calmest before a storm. He glances behind him at the enormous searchlight. His father gone, he rolls up his sleeves and prepares himself for the night. And the clouds roll in...
You are the sound I want to hear more than anything in the world.
You are the humming of glass, and the whisper of the breeze. You are the sound of a child's laughter, of a man's weeping, of a woman's longing. You play across my daylight and seep into my skin. You're the sound of a daydream. You're the sound of the heavenly spheres..dancing and singing across their empty stage.