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The bird had silver wings, my friends, And reached out for the sky; It found its wings were broken, It had lost the right to fly. The pink-eyed salamander Changed its colours for the day; It changed from white to purest gold And left the stag at bay. Now I am but a p;oor man In the apple blossom state, I choose to fly where'er I please, The stag must needs a mate. My golden salamander, You must take me as I am. I cannot change my colours, I am but a simple man. The golden salamander Had become the rite of spring; The silver bird made promises That scarcely meant a thing; They told the wicked huntsman Where the stag had run to rest. Now the elderly survivor Knew this was not for the best; He opened up his heart And prayed for peace for all mankind. He asked a fortune teller But found out that she was blind. The clouds were passing over, There was little sign of rain; The sun was slowly rising From its slumberdown again. The stag had run to cover In a copse beside the lake; The huntsman broke the silence And the birds began to wake. The fortune teller smiled As the survivor spoke of fate. He thanked her for her interest But knew it was too late. |
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