I tend to the root and the loam
Where the Jasmine and Citrus roam
I speak to the soil in the heat
While the city hums low in the street.
White robe high on a limestone wall
Watching the golden empire fall
Above the markets and the clay
The eagle waits for the end of day.
He sits like a king on the stone
In a kingdom he claims as his own
A ghost in a garment of snow
Watching the olive groves grow.
I know every leaf by its name
The Syrian Poplar's green flame
I prune back the branch with a sigh
While the white-winged watcher flies high.
White robe high on a limestone wall
Watching the golden empire fall
Above the markets and the clay
The eagle waits for the end of day.
The minaret stands in the glare
With a heavy and salt-laden air
The grit of the desert is deep
While the ancient city tries to sleep.
The roots of the cedar run old
In a story that needs to be told
I dig in the dirt with my hand
A servant of this sun-beaten land.
White robe high on a limestone wall
Watching the golden empire fall
Above the markets and the clay
The eagle waits for the end of day.
White robe high.
High on the stone.
High on the stone.
