Out of the dark we came. Out of the sea. Where the long wave breaks on the shore. As the day broke and the night rolled back, there we stood on the land we would call home. Out of the dark we came. Out of the night. The first of many mornings in this new place. When the sun rolled back the mist, we rose like a strong wave on land. Now we were the people of this place. What burns through the rain and mist? What banishes dark? What makes the children straight and bright? What makes the mountain sharp? The sun is our lord and father. Bright face at the gate of day. Comfort of home, cattle and crop. Lord of the morning, lord of the day. Lifting our hearts, we sing our praise, dance in his healing rays.
~
Calhoun is dead. Our great Calhoun. He was a shield of bronze. A wall of stone. A watcher in high places. A rock in the river. He was the sun of a morning. He was a fire at night. He was a powerful story. He was lightning in forest. A sudden storm. A short life.
~
Thunder and lightning batter the rocks. The winds howl and great storms break on the forest. Scatter the herds like grain. Fire leaps from dark to dark. Fear and anger leap to meet it. We will not go down. We will not be beaten down like grain.
~
I am soon to be, lost, bereft. I was the land and the land was me Taught and straight, I walked in the world. But then a cross banished my comfort. Ragged and bruised, I flee from branch to branch. The thorns scourge me. I have no peace by night or day.
~
No life is forever. We found and fought here. We loved and died here. Wave after wave the sea of time beats against every shore. We have seen smoke of war climb from our fields of grain. A stain over the sun. The crops wither. The bones of hunger walk the sunken roads, in the black rain or moon. Whole generations lift now to depart. The land has failed us. The dark soldiers appear against us. In dance and song we gift and mourn our children. They carry us over the ocean in dance and song.
~
Dawn and the ships are leaving. A lover's grief is lifting on the tide. And hearts too young for sorrow, torn asunder. The cruel oceans, deep and dark and wide.
~
Out of the night we come. Out of the sea. On a new shore, lights blaze in the dawn. Motherless, Fatherless, torn from our homes. We bring tears to this land. We must make our own.
~
Tall and straight my mother taught me, this is how we dance. Tall and straight my father taught me, this is how we dance. Battling feet on city street. In pools of light on street corners. The proud, bright carnival of the poor.
~
Over the rooftops, the music calling. The air familiar but not our own. Like something out of a storybook. Somebody dancing to the memory of snow.
~
And after all, the moon over city and forest is everywhere the same. And the old land still gives us fields of grain just as it does here. The rivers everywhere run down to the sea and the land everywhere takes life from the river. Tomorrow the sun will rise on plains of gold. My heart will heal. Here on a new shore I raise my head. The new step hammering on the memory of the old. It is all a journey. From one land to the next. From one life to another. Remaking ourselves always under the same sun and moon. A generation later, that immigrant's child stands for the first time on the old land. Familiar yet strange. A bittern weaves its music over the mountain. Memory rich in song. The heart come home.
~
Calhoun is dead. Our great Calhoun. He was a shield of bronze. A wall of stone. A watcher in high places. A rock in the river. He was the sun of a morning. He was a fire at night. He was a powerful story. He was lightning in forest. A sudden storm. A short life.
~
Thunder and lightning batter the rocks. The winds howl and great storms break on the forest. Scatter the herds like grain. Fire leaps from dark to dark. Fear and anger leap to meet it. We will not go down. We will not be beaten down like grain.
~
I am soon to be, lost, bereft. I was the land and the land was me Taught and straight, I walked in the world. But then a cross banished my comfort. Ragged and bruised, I flee from branch to branch. The thorns scourge me. I have no peace by night or day.
~
No life is forever. We found and fought here. We loved and died here. Wave after wave the sea of time beats against every shore. We have seen smoke of war climb from our fields of grain. A stain over the sun. The crops wither. The bones of hunger walk the sunken roads, in the black rain or moon. Whole generations lift now to depart. The land has failed us. The dark soldiers appear against us. In dance and song we gift and mourn our children. They carry us over the ocean in dance and song.
~
Dawn and the ships are leaving. A lover's grief is lifting on the tide. And hearts too young for sorrow, torn asunder. The cruel oceans, deep and dark and wide.
~
Out of the night we come. Out of the sea. On a new shore, lights blaze in the dawn. Motherless, Fatherless, torn from our homes. We bring tears to this land. We must make our own.
~
Tall and straight my mother taught me, this is how we dance. Tall and straight my father taught me, this is how we dance. Battling feet on city street. In pools of light on street corners. The proud, bright carnival of the poor.
~
Over the rooftops, the music calling. The air familiar but not our own. Like something out of a storybook. Somebody dancing to the memory of snow.
~
And after all, the moon over city and forest is everywhere the same. And the old land still gives us fields of grain just as it does here. The rivers everywhere run down to the sea and the land everywhere takes life from the river. Tomorrow the sun will rise on plains of gold. My heart will heal. Here on a new shore I raise my head. The new step hammering on the memory of the old. It is all a journey. From one land to the next. From one life to another. Remaking ourselves always under the same sun and moon. A generation later, that immigrant's child stands for the first time on the old land. Familiar yet strange. A bittern weaves its music over the mountain. Memory rich in song. The heart come home.