The Naked Troubadour

“It’s Never the Final Song” [music video]

Posted on May 13, 2020

LIVING-ROOM VIDEO #47: “It’s Never the Final Song!” I wrote this unexpected song on a deeply contemplative walk in the Alps last week. The story is in the video. The lyrics are below. Hope it is helpful and resonates. Love to one and all…

I thought I’d written all I had to say —
thought I had sung my final song.
But when I got down on my knees today,
I realized I’d got it wrong.
My mind was focused on the outer things
I hadn’t reckoned on the Muse.
Angelic helpers mean my spirit sings
and drives away that ‘no-song’ blues.

[1st Refrain]
For when we’re walking cleanly
in the heart-eye of the squall,
and we’re bathing in the waters
which the Muse helps us recall,
we will never thirst or hunger
and we’ll never know decay —
we will always have a torrent
out of which our songs will play.

We just assume supplies are running dry;
that there’s no grain left in the store —
That creativity has putrefied;
only some fragments in the drawer.
When that time comes, we need to understand
that there’s an endless river’s flow
from sources based way up in High Command:
I can assure you that I know!

[2nd Refrain]
For when our hearts are open
to the still small voice within,
what we put down on that paper
will be deeper than our skin.
For the duty of the artist
in this broken world today
is to shine Light in the shadows
and to paint over the grey.

It always feels as if our light won’t flow
after our current work is spent.
It’s been designed that way to let us know
artistic gifts are only ‘lent’.
Those works come through us from another place;
not from ourselves so we can crow.
Unless we’ve first been humbled in the blaze,
our stage is just an empty show.

[3rd Refrain]
For when we have been chastened
by the fire disclosed above,
then our works will all be scented
with our passion and a love
which is bigger than the artist
and the canvas of his dreams;
there is always more within her —
art is infinite, it seems.

So, let me sing here of the aid which comes
when you imagine you’re bereft.
Our heart-strings with a thumb an angel strums
just when we think there’s nothing left.
And if you think that I am speaking now
only about the gift of song,
it’s all a metaphor to show you how
to find that love for which you long.

© Alan Morrison, 2020