A Song from our Ancestors

Through the darkest blue of midnight
I see the winter of life's song,

I hear the sweetness of a melody
in a time that is all wrong;

I can hear off in the distance
a knowing tune that whistles, free
and, I can hear a song that's wrong, you must agree.

Notes are played, by memory
while not adhering to the score,

I hear a tune that waits for no one
for those who wait, on the dancing floor,

I feel the message of a lyric
that sings a song of what's in store,
and the harmonies of a tune that does implore.