| Dancing on the feet of a miracle
|
| While winter’s growing cold
|
| Life seems almost cynical
|
| In the gardens of green and gold
|
| While the apples of eden are calling me
|
| I sometimes just can’t believe
|
| That man was made a replica
|
| Of someone elses dream
|
| Away to where the rainbow’s just a stoney throw away
|
| Where kings and queens assemble, just to greet the world and say:
|
| Bear witness to the princess as she lights her precious dome
|
| And bluebells call you home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling--
|
| Home to all the broken melodies
|
| Is a home for all the sunny skies
|
| To rhyme without a reason endlessly
|
| Just look at how the butter flies
|
| When the evensong sing through the mezzanine
|
| And the birds interrupt the trees
|
| They were talking in the forest hatching up a scheme
|
| When winter comes they’ll up and leave
|
| To find the swirling oceans made of conscience and of clay
|
| The weight of all this nonsense we must carry down the way
|
| Towards the great reunion of the apple and the crow
|
| Come on it’s time to go…
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Tell the tree of sunlight, tell the day of rain
|
| Listen for the flutter, rising up again
|
| Better off without a suitcase is the mind
|
| Grasping at a moon beam, counting out the time
|
| I was only eight when magic touched my ear
|
| Now it seems the only thing I hear
|
| Is the everlasting chorus of a neverlasting dream
|
| Locked inside my fantasy
|
| So listen up campers along with the rain
|
| The promise of sunshine again
|
| With all that is pretty and all that is blue
|
| The bluebell shines for you
|
| Now somebody sold my blank endeavour
|
| To the creatures that walk on the moon
|
| In time you’ll see the world at the speed of light
|
| As we all set stones in bloom
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Home, home, bluebells calling home
|
| Dancing on the feet of a miracle
|
| While winter’s growing cold
|
| Life seems to be almost cynical
|
| In gardens of green and gold
|
| Dancing on the feet of a miracle
|
| While winter’s growing cold
|
| Life seems to be almost cynical
|
| In gardens of green and gold
|
| The light has come to free this song of anything that goes
|
| The featherless magician shakes his head and tells us slow
|
| The poet down on main street can’t believe his sunken eyes
|
| A calling from the skies!
|
| I’ve never seen a brighter sun
|
| Than the one the crow incorporated
|
| Into his painted rivers three
|
| As the apple reunites the broken melody
|
| Blue is my direction home
|
| Into a world where every ghostly figure
|
| Flutter round the cosmic tare
|
| As we’re dancing on the feet of miracles everywhere--
|
| Where do flowers go, when all is said and done
|
| They hope and pray, to find a second sun
|
| With golden shores, and amber painted skies
|
| Where poets run, and bluebells call home…
|
| I’ve never seen a better day
|
| Than the one that drove the clouds away
|
| Forever from this holy earth
|
| And the bluebells simple words just resting in the dirt
|
| And finally it seems to me
|
| This has got to be the place indeed
|
| I’m just sitting in the gardens green
|
| Watch the blue above and simply dream…
|
| My dreamy dream
|
| Where do flowers go, when all is said and done
|
| They hope and pray, to find a second sun
|
| With golden shores, and amber painted skies
|
| Where poets run, and bluebells call home… |