there's a road on the left side of my grandfather's farm
covered with leaves and insects it has a magical charm
cleared sometimes, sometimes it's crawling with weeds
and most days the mysteries of hearts the wind speaks
I always stare far into it's lane wondering what's there
the errie conciliation of mind and the emptiness of fear
I always expect a magical bloom, but it turns out vain
the only celebration of meditation is the evening rain
when the overwhelming east wind blows to the south
and birds have plenty of words to sing, singing of faith
when the little critters hurry down it's pathway home
and my spirit is eagerly tempted to follow them roam
it comes to be my love when the morning mist vanishes
and the sunlight creeps upon the leaves of the radishes
waking up the shallow waters floating in the softwoods
what matter if I go that way? maybe some-day I would
for the road is forlorn everyday, mystical and faraway
there's the gale to urge ahead silent like a hidden gway
I have come over this forest trail so many times before
dreaming of the endless possibilities along like a shore.
