From The Firestone Theatre |
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I. Where, in the meadow, the fields are spun gold, and the quiet countryside appealing the steeple’s song, last rung and bearing to tale of an archer in arms.
Here, the wildflower bears witness to a country’s distrust of the natural world to bear it a Queen, impartial, royal and just.
Stigma laid open to a crown, be she fair, the world resound, and unloved, she wanders.
I, the sole proprietor, do receive news of my unfailing jest— to receive paramount image and stone’s throw to the patriarch.
Emily Isaacson |
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II. In this world or the next, I shall find myself at rest, in the appropriate time, blest, mother of many children.
When they shall do me good, not harm I shall come around and gather them, singing, that they might receive the stringent arms of Scotland.
All hail to this majestic court, where above we find our jury, judge and witness, a moment’s call to duty’s end upon a road not taken.
Emily Isaacson |
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III. Oh woe, and such a tale to bear of stately children lost and without wind to drive them, open to the stateman’s cause to open fire at none lest harm deceive them.
Right on a border, homeless, now they walk and Shelter spreads her wings to guide them, refugees to a foreign post, and weeping at the inquiet.
Never trust the stranger’s bed never weep, lest force bequeath thee, myriad of weaponry, just and sure is the path.
Emily Isaacson |
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IV. Where, in the distance, time relents and stakes its claim on watery grave, the ships of sea, still in their ports, and lemons, shipped to Turkey.
The olive and the rose shall grow the cedar and the wine now age, the morning of the next time rift to glow on faces, shining and the night, an open book of stars.
Emily Isaacson |