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Lyrics
Your hands — white swans,
Soft, too near.
In my hair,
In my fear.
All the world
Sings one song.
I sang once.
I sing along.
Every word
Breathes and stays.
Warm with touch,
Cold with days.
Love the soul
To the bone.
Heart turns gold,
Heavy stone.
Foreign moon
Cold and far.
Can’t warm love,
Can’t heal scars.
Two white swans,
Hold me tight.
Gentle hands,
End the night.
I would sing
Soft and slow,
But your touch
Let me go.
How to live?
Burn or wait?
Die in love
Or age in fate?
Every beauty
Walks its way.
For the ear,
For display.
If a song
Has no roots,
It is dust,
Not the truth.
Say my name.
Say it low.
Hold me close.
Let me go.
Love is light.
Love is loss.
Every path
Has its cost.
Two white swans,
White and kind.
Softest hands,
Cruelest bind.
I would sing
Pure and free,
But those swans
Silenced me.
Say of me,
When I’m gone:
He could sing…
But swans won.
The idea#
Hands as white swans—soft, too near—in hair and in fear. The world sings one song; the speaker joins, then learns what gentleness costs. Love warms the soul to the bone and turns the heart to “gold, heavy stone.” A foreign moon cannot heal scars.
Hold me tight / let me go—the swans’ double law. Beauty walks for ear and display; a song without roots is dust. Softest hands, cruelest bind; they silence the singer. The epitaph is already written: He could sing… but swans won.
Vocal trance lift over a lyric of tender captivity. Perhaps love here is not villainy but a softness so absolute it smothers the voice it meant to cherish.
