In a garden of roses I looked for her
And I heard her cry as I caught her eye;
And she called my name through her long brown hair,
But her voice was dry: and the word was ‘lie’.
In a dream of mountains I made my way
Through the deathless snow and the prayer wheels’ blow,
And the sound of her voice of a far off day
Came upon me low, and the word was ‘no’.
If the rain from the mountains should fall on the sea
Then in the eye of the storm I’ll be crying for her
And the sign that she makes will be written in the sky,
In the cradle of murmur of ‘think what we were’.
Written in April 1967 to be sung with a dulcimer . . .
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