The Atavist's Meridian

Regale us once more

With the tales you used to chronicle

When we were but callow

And all was new

And all was new

Of age old myths

Both formidable and sublime

Of gallant feats

That gripped our fledgling minds

Of a spirited people

And their bucolic wisdoms

From the land in which you grew

From the land in which you pine

From the land in which you grew

From the land in which you pine

An atavist you’ve always been

A pastoral dream

Swells in your soul

Evoking the spirit

Of soil left behind

A yearning profound

Captivates the senses

Flooding your heart

With lucid recollections

Of burning days

Tending to vine and herd

Of blackest nights

Gazing at the heavens

Cry out for the hills

And their ancestral paths

Weep in remembrance

Of those so revered

The mortal hours are waning

Return to her

Drink from her soundless waters

If you truly wish to sing

Ascend her sun-gilded peaks

If you truly wish to climb

Drink from her soundless waters

If you truly wish to sing

Ascend her sun-gilded peaks

If you truly wish to climb

And when her winds come to reap your earthly vessel

Only then, only then

Only then, only then

Will you truly know you have lived

Will you truly know you have lived

Return, return

Return, return

Return to her

An atavist you’ve always been