Resides a woman, small and neat.
Alike in countenance and heritage,
Thus far unmoved and remote.
Blood of my blood,
Yet Stranger to me.
Silence and distance,
Heartfelt and imagined,
Tattered the connection
Of kith and kin.
Blood of my blood,
Yet Stranger to me.
Dreams of future past
And chances gone awry.
Faces in a mirror of the mind
Searching for a way back again.
Blood of my blood,
Yet Stranger to me.
Connections lost,
No new ones forged
The past too lost in mist
To light our way.
Blood of my blood,
Yet Stranger to me.
Sing a song of sixpence
Pocket full of rye
When we come accounting
Will it come up nigh?
Blood of my blood,
Yet Stranger indeed.
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