to this song I see a dance
silent swish of fans and painted faces
set to the warm sound of cold iceland
what culture am I when I am none
picking and choosing my place
from among the notes of others
what sound is my own
when all sounds have been heard before

along the line of history
even time has a string
what point to draw a concerto
when I'll never be genius
at anything

I admit at times I am displaced
sailboat in the wrong ocean
only the wind forcing me forward
gives lift to the odd dream
upon a time my hair in the wind
does mean something