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Above the distant hills of a place we call our home Rises the crescent moon, below night’s creatures roam. In this fairy domain, for moments we live. Not a bow is fitted, nor sword unsheathed: all give. Under crescent skies we sing, we dance. Euphoric is the step, the trance. Our eyes are dry: not a tear is wept. Intensity, it builds. Mesmeric the pipes Pan blows. Harken! those of Mother Earth: friends or foes. For hypnotic are the pipes Pan fits to his lips, And when he plays, all stop to listen. Listen! (Chorus) Listen to the voices gathering in the silver light. Songs of joy ring out through the magic night. “Come away. Come away. Follow our merry trail. Sing the song of creation under the crescent pale.” (Chorus) The piper’s song is calling you closer—closer to the dance. Open your mind—open your heart—or lose the chance. “Join us!” it seems to say, but not in so many words, For the piper, his pipe sings sweeter than the songbirds. (Chorus) |
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Originally published as a collection of songs entitled: Onerous Musicalis (A Collection of Bothersome Musical Soirées). Copyright © 1995 Eric Knickerbocker. All rights reserved. | Next Poem  |
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