Andrew Calhoun - The King

The King

A dusty attic room, stillness of a tomb,
Where someone else's memory gathers in the gloom,
While out on the quay, rough water slapped at me,
And roared as if to say, "We wash it all away;"
This is where my king calls me home,
My king calls me home;
This is where my king calls me home.

Struggle was the lock, and honor the key,
Your sorrows all a basket for the gift you bring to me,
And everywhere you've been, we'll visit once again,
With careless caroling, and never want a thing;
This is where my king calls me home. . . .

A weed that never bloomed, in the shadow of the eave,
Stood up all afternoon, and hung its head to grieve,
As one newborn to violence, who couldn't beat the odds,
Has paid the price of cruel choice for all we little gods;
This is where my king calls me home. . . .

I leave you where the spring, in urgent trickling,
Like magic through the wood, sings anybody good,
Where every move away, leads towards another day,
Where at your journey's end, I find you whole again;
This is where my king calls me home. . . .