My
life has been a tapestry, a
bridge and royal hue,
an everlasting vision of the ever-changing view,
a wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold,
a tapestry to feel and see,
impossible to hold.
Once amid the soft and silver sadness in the sky,
there came a man of fortune,
a drifter
passing by.
He wore a torn and tattered cloth around his leathered hide,
and a coat of many colors,
yellow-green on
either side.
He moved with some uncertainty as if he didn't know
just what he was there for or where he
ought to go.
He wished for something golden hanging from a tree,
and his hand
came down empty.
Soon within my tapestry,
along the rutted road,
he sat upon a river rock and turned into a toad.
It seemed that he had fallen
into someone's wicked spell,
and I went to see him some more,
though I didn't know him well.
As I watched in sorrow,
there suddenly appeared
a figure,
gray and ghostly,
beneath a flowing beard.
In times of deepest darkness,
I'd seen him dressed in black.
Now my tapestry's unraveling.
He's come to
take me back.
He's come to take me back.