The waterline is brocade on the stream Silver at the rising in the east And copper at the falling in the west On the mountains' rim's a fiery crest Calling to the sprawling beast Return, return, return The treeline's shingled canopy Could never break the ancient slumber Nor wake us from the dreams beneath the bark But within the trunk and ancient dark Worms consume fresh timber Before a table can emerge Before an empty chair is filled Before a song is written on a page That song is held in branches And the restless wind blowing from the south That song will never fill a living mouth As it empties on the soil, a leaf that dances Heavy with that music Is unbolted from the stem Echoed in the hollow crags And sung by trees in all their forms Return, return, return Return, return, return