Alone again,
in the dry, sandy pinelands.
Wandering,
without aim,
without aim,
in the sandy, silent barrens.
Silent,
save for muted, melancholy murmurs,
the scarcely whispered secret-telling,
of the towering longleaf pines.
Alone cannot exist,
nor silence,
beneath the lofty longleaf awning
where the wanderer
walks and listens
'midst ipecac, thistle and rue.
Life, though sparse,
is thriving
in the dry and sandy spaces
betwixt the burly blackened bolls
of the ancient longleaf clan.
And with the onset of the gloaming,
the mind as well may wander,
to a sunny far off childhood,
nigh forgotten;
where hours were whiled away
in the lichen-covered,
dry and sandy spaces,
dreaming boldly of the future,
with sympathetic kin,
and the mysterious mumbled musings of the pines.
Awakened from our reverie
by the late day chill,
we hear the whispers resolve
in syllables clear;
we hear the whispers resolve
in syllables clear;
Welcome home, child.
Welcome home...
Welcome home...