This is a fantasy.
Pure fantasy.
It's a dream.
It's a dream about an old man who dies alone.
And leaves a gift behind.
And it is a fantasy,.

Morningside
The old man died
And no one cried
They simply turned away
And when he died
He left a table made of nails and pride
And with his hands he carved these words inside
"For my children."

Morning light
Morning bright
I spent the night
With dreams that make you weep
Morning time
Wash away the sadness from these eyes of mine
For I recall the words an old man sighed
"For my children."

And the legs were shaped with his hands.
Ah, and the top made of oaken wood.
And all of the children that gathered around this great table and touched it with their laughter.
Ah, and that was good.

Morningside
An old man died
And no one cried
He surely died alone
The truth is sad
For not a child would claim the gift he had
The words he carved became his epitaph
"For my children."

Home.
Santos.
Home.
Home.
Home.

See also:
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