The inner self / 1983

For who can tell what they can see,
through veils of smoked glass melancholy,
and who can know what they believe,
when all we see we can't perceive.

When night is light,
and light is night,
and all fades out without a sight.

Through time we weave transparent lies,
and look for hope through glazed white skies,
though times may change we will not see,
with stubborn hearts that will not grieve,
for all that was and is yet to be,
will not heed my lonely plea.

To hear the wind high in the trees,
spirits soaring with the breeze,
sun baked corn breathes the name,
and all in all remains the same;
but in our hearts and minds we find,
our inner selves of distant times.


Andrew Siddle / 1983