There are voices in the first grey of morning
Whispers that recall old promises
Like showers of rain on the mown grass
And the flourishing of the righteous
And songs of ancient dreams
But who can hear them?
Whose ear is to the wind?
Whose eye is on the heavens?
Who looks for a sign?
Wait, you who once were young
And turn away from every care
Before the engines rattle and hum
Before the heat and burden of the day
And believe, or remember how you once believed
And listen again.