The Weaver Of Grass Testo

They took him here from another place Where the Machair's sweet winds fold upon the face Silent turmoill rolls across his eyes A changing world, a troubled heart The spirits freedom broken from the start Youth forever lost in Europe's lies A young man's frame with an old man's hope The painful journey, the turning of the rope Bound forever tied to childhood's dreams The lovat days now in the past The mounted pride that was never meant to last In a warring world where women sighed The wind blows cold on the Black Isle's fields This silent world where he touches what he feels Held forever still on the outer line The darkened room, a night of sighs The world defined by the regimented minds Oh for the coloured nights of a Uist sky The hands still turn a desperate weave To search the freedoms of the open field Where nature's healing measure finds its way By the hanging tree and the windblown fence His darkened eyes turned inward in defence Of a world that only he could ever dream The homeward road, the familiar shore The pewits cry that will cry forever more Down through a people's line he was sure had gone And in this drift of a world unchanged His weave is strengthened in the passing of his days So late we came to see him in his pride