Return into the Mist (UK Edition)

British folk, j-pop, Japanese folk, Japanese, world music, folk rock, New age, progressive rock

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The fingers that once led with heavy grace,
Now hold a dripping mop in a lonely place. 
Upon this stage of a hundred stretched-out years, 
We only wait for the curtain to end our fears.

So as not to narrow our children's fragile stride, 
We stare at the white ceiling, keeping words inside. 
A morning fog of uncertainty creeps into the brain, 
Only the ticking clock marks our spot in the rain.

A cold stone cottage, smoke melts into the grey,
Giving up on the NHS queue, we look away. 
We lived without treading on any neighbor's hand,
So at the final hour, we make no heavy demand.

In a garden unvisited, I touch the frozen clay,
Hearing dead friends' voices in the wind that blows away. 
Closing the paper that calls us a "burden to the state," 
I cherish the scent of earth, and quietly accept my fate.

At the end of stretched time, we have settled all our scores,
If we steal another's spring, we will close our own heavy doors. 
To the souls who kept their silence in a world of blinding light, 
No crowns or titles needed, we return into the misty night.

The ageing business puts a price tag on our breath,
But our true dignity is something they cannot buy till death.
The magic of "potential" and the seats of power are gone, 
But this clean defeat is the light that carries us on.

The old soldier next door, the mother from that day, 
We all kept the same silence, with nothing left to say. 
the age they name with careless tongues.
This muddy ethics is the coat from which we won't escape.

Listen close and you can hear the refrain from the deep loam, 
"You lived well," they whisper, as they welcome us back home.
Not a borrowed life connected by a cold hospital wire,
I step down at this final platform with my pride entire.

To the souls who kept their silence in a world of blinding light,
No one praised your hundred years, but you survived the longest fight.
When the hour of mist is over, and the darkness starts to deep,
We’ll return into the earth, as the quiet trees that never weep.

Just to live, and just to fade, in the shadow of the town,
We proved the quiet miracle before the curtain goes down.

The mop, the garden spade, quietly laid upon the floor.
The long local train of a hundred years stops at the shore.

I can hear the children's footsteps,
Running far into the future, out of sight.

That is enough.
That is more than enough.

Beyond the mist,
The church bells softly chime in the cold air,

Quietly, the sun rises again.

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The fingers that once led with heavy grace, Now hold a dripping mop in a lonely place. Upon this stage of a hundred stretched-out years, We only wait for the curtain to end our fears. So as not to narrow our children's fragile stride, We stare at the white ceiling, keeping words inside. A morning fog of uncertainty creeps into the brain, Only the ticking clock marks our spot in the rain. A cold stone cottage, smoke melts into the grey, Giving up on the NHS queue, we look away. We lived without treading on any neighbor's hand, So at the final hour, we make no heavy demand. In a garden unvisited, I touch the frozen clay, Hearing dead friends' voices in the wind that blows away. Closing the paper that calls us a "burden to the state," I cherish the scent of earth, and quietly accept my fate. At the end of stretched time, we have settled all our scores, If we steal another's spring, we will close our own heavy doors. To the souls who kept their silence in a world of blinding light, No crowns or titles needed, we return into the misty night. The ageing business puts a price tag on our breath, But our true dignity is something they cannot buy till death. The magic of "potential" and the seats of power are gone, But this clean defeat is the light that carries us on. The old soldier next door, the mother from that day, We all kept the same silence, with nothing left to say. the age they name with careless tongues. This muddy ethics is the coat from which we won't escape. Listen close and you can hear the refrain from the deep loam, "You lived well," they whisper, as they welcome us back home. Not a borrowed life connected by a cold hospital wire, I step down at this final platform with my pride entire. To the souls who kept their silence in a world of blinding light, No one praised your hundred years, but you survived the longest fight. When the hour of mist is over, and the darkness starts to deep, We’ll return into the earth, as the quiet trees that never weep. Just to live, and just to fade, in the shadow of the town, We proved the quiet miracle before the curtain goes down. The mop, the garden spade, quietly laid upon the floor. The long local train of a hundred years stops at the shore. I can hear the children's footsteps, Running far into the future, out of sight. That is enough. That is more than enough. Beyond the mist, The church bells softly chime in the cold air, Quietly, the sun rises again.

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