Wanderer Tales

This world, a jewel on a wanderer's hand,
Where cypresses weep on a sun-bleached strand.
What a view, a shimmering lie,
Palms reach for an azure, infinite sky.

The light bleeds to emerald, the air thick with grace,
A dream you can't fathom, a time out of place.
And I stand at the center, a patient, still plea,
For a whisper of magic, to set my soul free.

Oh, I'm just waiting here, for the light to bend,
For the old formula, my journey's end.
To break this painted, endless dream,
And see Dortmund's mines, a shadowy gleam.

Cornwall's proud cliffs, against the grey spray,
And the Moorlock herds, from Orellan's first day.
From the early worlds, whispered in tales,
I long for the home that never fails.

Each sunrise paints a new, strange hue,
A whisper of what I must do.
My fingers trace symbols, arcane and slow,
The only way left, I still know to go.

This perfect horizon, it shifts and it weaves,
Like memories caught in the wind-rustled leaves.
I've seen the stars tangle, felt gravity wane,
But the ache for the known, it still throbs in my brain.

Oh, I'm just waiting here, for the light to bend,
For the old formula, my journey's end.
To break this painted, endless dream,
And see Dortmund's mines, a shadowy gleam.

Cornwall's proud cliffs, against the grey spray,
And the Moorlock herds, from Orellan's first day.
From the early worlds, whispered in tales,
I long for the home that never fails.

They say this landscape's a sweet escape,
A vibrant, timeless, living drape.
But I crave the dust, the salt, the sound,
Of my own true, familiar ground.

Though Moorlocks are strange, and mines are deep,
It's where my restless spirit sleeps.
Beyond the surreal, the beautiful lie,
Is a grounding truth, beneath a real sky.

Oh, I'm just waiting here, for the light to bend,
For the old formula, my journey's end.
To break this painted, endless dream,
And see Dortmund's mines, a shadowy gleam.

Cornwall's proud cliffs, against the grey spray,
And the Moorlock herds, from Orellan's first day.
From the early worlds, whispered in tales,
I long for the home that never fails.

This world on the wanderer's palm, it gleams,
But I dream of Dortmund, and Cornwall's old streams.
The Moorlock's low call, I hear it so near,
Old formula, grant me my only wish here.
Just let me go home... let me go home...
To the dust... and the stone... Let me go home.

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You can listen to the song via the link:

https://disk.yandex.ru/d/PfGoBj4wv1i_iQ


Смысл: Герой находится в мире красоты и магии, но ощущает ностальгию по своему настоящему дому. Его мысли полны воспоминаний о знакомых местах. Он стремится преодолеть иллюзию этого прекрасного мира, чтобы вернуться к реальным местам, откуда он родом, и к древним преданиям. Это - путешествие души, жажда возвращения к истокам.