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Birch Book
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White Angel
Traveler's tears, wounded memories
Hands full of days, these were the ways
You looked for home
Pale paths change, marking out the way
Into the grace of day
Traveler's tears, wounded memories
One hand full of days
One hand on the cold hard ground
It's as they say:
It's coldest before the dawn
As the cold hard ground
White Angel, White Angel, give me light
I have passed such a long time
In the cold dark night
My bruised and burning eyes
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Await their dream of morning
Put your hand to the plow
Dry your traveler's tears
Lick your wounds
Dress your memories
In wood betony
It's as you'd own:
It's coldest before the dawn
And in your bones
You know the way back home
My bruised and burning eyes
Await their dream of morning
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