Lyrics
He walks beside the ancient scales, a boy of twelve years old,
His family breathes the mountain air and keeps him from the cold.
A white bone bow is on his back, a subtle, quiet sheen,
With water-blue upon his belt, and leaf of glowing green.
They journey deep beneath the earth where molten rivers run,
He feels the lava on his face just like a second sun.
The boy who drew his winter bow to save a yearling's life,
Now walks the dark and sweating stone, away from any strife.
The day is done, the sun is low, upon the twilight trees,
He feels the steady heat of breath, between his bracing knees.
The wind is rushing past his face, across the blurring lands,
And on the dragon's back he flies, he does not sit but stands.
He keeps his arms spread wide and free, to balance in the gale,
A boy above the turning world, upon the living scale.
They fly between the ancient trees, much wider than a den,
Where leaves are like a hunter's cloak, far from the world of men.
The water flashes far below, he smells the rainy bark,
He balances with arms out wide, before the coming dark.
And then they rise above the peaks, into the fading light,
The cold is biting at his ears, the ground is out of sight.
The sunset holds upon the bow, a distant, fading hue,
He does not seek a city wall, he seeks the open blue.
The clouds break open on his face, he smiles against the sky,
No boasting from the ancient beast, just quiet, rushing high.
The day has said just what it was, in shadow, rock, and foam,
Up here within the trackless air, the boy is safely home.
The day is done, the sun is low, upon the twilight trees,
He feels the steady heat of breath, between his bracing knees.
The wind is rushing past his face, across the blurring lands,
And on the dragon's back he flies, he does not sit but stands.
He keeps his arms spread wide and free, to balance in the gale,
A boy above the turning world, upon the living scale.
The ground becomes a distant thought...
He does not sit but stands.