I sing the song of the man born blind

in a world not of my making,

where the cities of the heart

are cities for the taking.

It was light; I know not how

but the night is fast upon me now.

I am the traitor at my gate

and the city is wide open now.

I’m waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


I go vagabond from heart to heart

until my courage fails.

Is there none that will take my part?

Not one that will go my bail?

O, the tigers of desire

track the antelopes of memory

and I wake up just a train wreck

in the hollow of her neck.

Waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


O, the way one heart can wind around

another heart that it has found.

You are the one who knows my heart,

the unraveler of ways.

In the desert, long I cried

and all the while you were inside,

the maker of my days.

I’m waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


Sometimes the stars align,

the wheels get set in motion:

an inheritance, a dark-eyed girl,

the crossing of an ocean,

calling forth the hero’s

last measure of devotion.

But as for me, I hope to see the jubilee.

I’m waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


So, who then will I be

when the graves all split asunder?

When the shroud falls from my eyes

and they fill with wonder?

Will I be the infant

upon my father’s knee?

Or will I be the father, then,

and my son close to me?

I’m waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


My father’s thighs were trunks of trees

that I could lean against;

my mother’s eyes, the limpid seas

a landlocked artist paints.

Ah, but memory’s like moonlight

in puddles on the ground,

silver shards of heaven

laying scattered all around.

I’m waiting on a messenger

from heaven.


The names of the months are twelve,

the names of the days are seven

but the name of my own true love

is on the lips of a messenger

from heaven.


© 2017 Echotongue Music


Messenger From Heaven