fathers

there's a man outside my window, here at break of day, and
i wonder if he's lost his son, gone roaming in the wilds, and does
he search in all the gardens on his way, does he ask the many

strangers, off fighting for their keep, if they've slain a merry
wanderer, left him lying by a road, or have they heard his silver
song, the voice of but a lad, and i wonder, in his sorrow, if

he'd stay, and face the monsters that would take me
for their own, drive the blackness from the places round my bed,
for they're filled with darkly menace, harsh muttering that

speaks in wretched tongues, and if he could only see my eyes,
he'd know that fathers stay where sons have need, where
they can bring their comforts, ease some pain and dread,

there's a man outside my window, quiet, with a watcher's
stare, and he must be waiting for the rise of magicks, for
some spells to heal his heart, and will he be my father

one more time