Morningside

Morningside,
the old man died
and no one cried,
they simply turned away,
and when he died,
he left a table made of nails and pride,
and with his hands he carved these words inside:
"For my children".

Morninglight,
morningbright,
I spent the night,
with dreams that make you weep,
morningtime,
wash away the sadness from these eyes of mine,
for I recall the words an old man signed:
"For my children".

[parlando]:
And the legs were shaped with his hands,
and the top made of oaken wood,
and the children that sat around this great table touched it with their laughter,
Ah, - and that was good.

Morningside,
an old man died,
and no one cried,
he surely died alone,
and truth is sad,
for not a child would claim the gift he had;
the words he carved became his epitaph:
"For my children".