Every son wants to sing his fathers song.
Sound the horn and drum.
When the Father is gone
Sons burn like a wickless flame,
Attached to nothing, consuming everything.
Sound the horn, pound the drum.
Sons weep to sing their fathers songs.
The need drives them into the wilderness.
They sleep among each other,
The wounded, the drunk, the lost sons.
They wander until they find
The song they need to sing.
When sons honor their fathers
Rightness returns and the words come
To say what is in their hearts.
Our fathers, everywhere they are,
Sing among themselves until son
And flame and song are one.