Overhead, the albatross
hangs motionless upon the air.
And, deep beneath the rolling waves,
in labyrinths of coral caves,
the echo of a distant time
comes willowing across the sand,
and everything is green and submarine.

And no one shows us to the land,
and no one knows the wheres or whys.
Something stirs and something tries,
and starts to climb toward the light.

Strangers passing in the street,
by chance two separate glances meet.
And I am you, and what I see is me.
And do I take you by the hand,
and lead you through the land,
and help me understand
the best I can?

And no one calls us to the land
and no one crosses there alive.
No one speaks and no one tries,
and no one flies around the sun.

Almost everyday you fall
upon my waking eyes,
inviting and inciting me to rise.
And, through the window in the wall,
come streaming in on sunlight wings,
a million bright ambassadors of morning.

And no one sings me lulabyes,
and no one makes me close my eyes,
and so I throw the windows wide
and call to you across the sky.

from Meddle, 1971

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