The Man in the Whirlwind

The Man in the Whirlwind

Out where it's flat I see a man walking
No trees grow on the plains
The grasses bow for a storm is brewing
The winds ride wild with the rain

The sky grows black though the sun's still shining
the clouds speak death for the man
His path is long and the day is winding
The winds run free in this land

Lightning cracks but the rain won't pour
Fires have swept o'er these lands
The man won't flinch though the heavens roar:
He's holding a bird in his hand.

A black-eyed sparrow in the palm of his hand
He'll see her safe and sound
With the wind and the fire he understands
There's death for a bird on the ground

The dust and the sand are stinging his face
He cups his hand to his chest
He leans as he walks and quickens his pace
In his house the man may find rest

The fires come racing over the plains
they dance to devour the land
But the whirlwind leaps and blows them away
the man is the wind's oldest friend

The fires burn past save for a small patch of grass
There's a man in the heart of the storm
creatures too small to have survived that at all-
They're alive around the man in the storm
 


No tree grows where that man goes, for the wind and the fire are strong,
But still he walks with his timid flock, though his road be dark and long.