It began in a early crispy morning
when few had yet arisen but me
the notes was stirred in a gently fashion
aroused by no other than we

it was then I almost lost my sentence
to words and spaces in between
our bodies sought to mangle
each breath we held to steady

it was love in a field of flowers
as well the sun once did burn
and our feet lost no ground
when we moved away with each turn

slow swords did follow
like broken shards of clay
all the words we swallow
want to come out and play

with chimes so heavy
and trusted hands so light
with a manuscript of levy
a fire is burning bright

yet did it seem a memory
of feathers in a room
filled with wings and emery
in the early morning gloom

ours was the broken pieces
of love we once found
but it never stops or ceases
in a way we are abound

to stumble through a journey
were each step is a single note
to dwindle in such a tourney
is not about what I wrote

I never would have guessed
such treasures you might meet
which is tender soft and neat
on the road to Mandalay

but if you would be so blessed
with a song as sweet as hers
listen to a gathering of birds
as I am on my knees to pray

such treasures are best to keep
still inside a beating chest
or wrapped in a glowing sheet
where Miranda hidden lay

off the road to Mandalay