And so, the years of song are over,
and the years of silence begun,
but I pray he is mistaken.
I know his heart is not one to discard
or so easily part;
his silence is more than I can bear.
And so, the sting of doubt is over,
and the quiet ache of certainty begun,
but his voice, his songs - they haunt me.
I'd just as soon be with his heart in doubt
than in certainty without;
which silence is more difficult to bear?
The West is my Calypso!
She'll surely let him go;
he'll wrest from her shores
and return once more.
And so, I pray that our hearts will restore,
and I pray that our spirits will roar,
and the sounds of our voices
once broken will soar.
I pray to know when to let go.