Creaking Gate

I wrote another lyric a couple of days ago. I don't know whether or not it will be included in the Kodagain project, Letters From Quentin, but, anyway, here it is:

Creaking Gate

There’s a house that was built
For children to play in.
If you go there today,
You’ll see it stands in ruins.

No one has got further than
The creaking gate.

With my creaking gate, my broken shutters,
My dry rot and my wet rot,
I shall outlast you all,
Or perhaps not.

I’ve always had to tell myself it’s their loss,
But what treasure is the whole world missing out on
Between these walls so green and overgrown with moss?

Hear me moaning and complaining.
Hear my gate creaking
And my hollow places speaking
With the cold, night wind,
And I know for a fact
You will come to the gate, and turn back.

I’ve always had to tell myself it’s your loss,
But what treasure is the whole world missing out on
Between these walls so green and overgrown with moss?

No one has got further than
The creaking gate.

But there will come a time when
The whole world seeks me out
And beats a path
To my gate.

Will it be too late?
Will it be too late?