by Merav Hoffman
A woman sits and composes,
Moving her fingers, mouthing the words,
Across the world a man listens,
Lets go of sadness while no one observes.
Even the birds above the water
Are singing of my love for you… Sang the young and handsome troubador,
To the one true love he knew.
Across the world a woman listens,
Her fingers are strumming the strings,
And not even the birds will tell,
Of the love she has for her king.
Even the birds above the water,
Are singing of my love for you… Sings the young and beautiful troubador,
To the one true love she knew.
Instead she gives love for her country,
Find patriotism when she can’t go on,
In the aftermath of the bloodshed,
She writes a song for Arbonne.
And her song will rise with the country,
No matter the ruler be king, or be queen,
In a land built up with such music,
Even the birds, must always sing.