They are empty;
But dark briarthorn tangles round them.
Winding are the caverns cut by waters of the past.
They say that dreams of lovers haunt the edges of the darkness,
And phantom hours still echo there from days too bright to last.
Who is she?
She is nameless.
She’s the glimmer of the moonbeams,
Shy in the night time and vanished with the morn.
Her kisses are red roses, their petals bright with passion,
Wild roses of red passion which close their hearts at dawn.
Who is he?
He is nameless.
He’s the west wind from the ocean,
Reckless and restless as he searches God knows where.
He whispers from the lost years as he searches in the caverns
And tangled roses glint in russet gold of wandering hair.
What is it?
It is love
Of the west wind and the moonbeams,
Mingling and dancing in the passion of the free.
Mingling and dreaming on the edges of the darkness,
Moonbeams from the night sky and west wind from the sea.
RAE, 2 November 1975
They are empty;
But dark briarthorn tangles round them.
Winding are the caverns cut by waters of the past.
They say that dreams of lovers haunt the edges of the darkness,
And phantom hours still echo there from days too bright to last.
Who is she?
She is nameless.
She’s the glimmer of the moonbeams,
Shy in the night time and vanished with the morn.
Her kisses are red roses, their petals bright with passion,
Wild roses of red passion which close their hearts at dawn.
Who is he?
He is nameless.
He’s the west wind from the ocean,
Reckless and restless as he searches God knows where.
He whispers from the lost years as he searches in the caverns
And tangled roses glint in russet gold of wandering hair.
What is it?
It is love
Of the west wind and the moonbeams,
Mingling and dancing in the passion of the free.
Mingling and dreaming on the edges of the darkness,
Moonbeams from the night sky and west wind from the sea.
RAE, 2 November 1975