i am at a place where the swallows come,
where the sand is soft beneath my feet,
where i can hear the lambs,
and the sound of the weir,
where i am untroubled, and where i am free.
o! how pristine above me the sky,
my little tears will be lost,
by i still let them cry.
i am at a place where the swallows come
and you cannot touch me here,
let me find grief
and then let me find joy,
in my own way, in my own place,
in my own time.