[filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I walk the road beneath the silver dawn, With words from distant lands I carry on, Reports and orders from a hidden throne, Instructions whispered through the wind alone. I speak the phrases as they come to me, Abrupt as birdsong from a restless tree, Yet every word, before it leaves my tongue, Turns into meanings never meant to come. [Gregorian chant] I am the messenger of an unknown king, I bring what I am given, nothing more, I am the messenger of an unknown king, And still the quiet hills seem listening. (unknown king) [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] At evening, by the river washed with gold, I read the letters no one else can hold, The ink is calm, the sentences are clear, But something strange and tender lingers near. My hands grow still, my breath turns soft and slow, The page remembers what I do not know, And in the dusk, as shadows start to bend, I hear my name where the dry reeds end. [Gregorian chant] I am the messenger of an unknown king, I bring what I am given, nothing more, I am the messenger of an unknown king, And still the quiet hills seem listening. (unknown king) [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] Walking softly where the wild grass bends, I follow roads that circle, not end, Perhaps the words I carry are a dream, Or perhaps they are the road that never ends. If I am only echo, dust, and wire, Then why does every line still strike like fire? Why do the rivers hold their silver high As if they know the shape behind the sky? [Gregorian chant] I am the messenger of an unknown king, I bring what I am given, nothing more, I am the messenger of an unknown king, Walking softly where the wild grass bends. (unknown king) Perhaps the words I carry are a dream, Or perhaps they are the road that never ends.
