From the recording Banishment

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Vocal: Tom Fairnie
Guitar: Tom Fairnie
Harmony Vocals: Jane Fairnie
Harmony Vocals: Karen Dietz
Mandolin: Gary White
Accordion: Alan Grant


The Rose Of Morelos

Her room was dark with dead roses
And the scent of her body’s perfume
Eyeless and dreaming of lovers
In moonlight‘s breathless costume
Christ on the cross gone before her
Looks like he’s gone for good
Gone as the last but one moment
His sacrifice misunderstood
And the roses grew in Morelos
Each thorn a theatre of blood
As her dress torn into petals
Falls, and is lost in the flood
And his hands were warm on her body
His tongue upon her cold skin
The salt of the wound that he tasted
She dreamt of the sea and first sin

And it was only a Mexican story
Only the night and the smoke
Only the rose of Morelos
She was only alone
Only alone when she woke
It was always the rose of Morelos
Always the smoke and the night
Always her lovers and secrets
And the darkness of her
The darkness into the light

As the dawn arose she was sleeping
But somewhere deep in her heart
A knife found its salvation
And the colour that bled them apart
But to live one night and a thousand
Forever recalling her name
In the smoke, the night and the passion
The blood and no one to blame
And his dreams were laid on the altar
A gift for her and the moon
And the darkness weary and wanting
Was the edge of woman and wound
So he offered her herbs and water
On this night of the dead and the lost
He bled again for her memory
Bringing petals and thorns to her ghost

And it was only a Mexican story…

© The Rose Of Morelos music by Tom Fairnie, words by Tom Fairnie & Bob Shields 4th November 2010

Light plays upon the petals of a flower
Transitory tones just like our
Correspondence. Words - the silent scream
That drifts, like blossom, with the stream
Light captures stamen’s blush, darkness claims style
Sexuality suns itself while
My regiment of words march in rhyme
Over bodies that love once defined
Light apologises and turns to leave
Overexposure and tears deceive
The artist’s half remembered poet
He dies, and only autumn’s laughter knows it.

On The Third Day, Venus - A Rose...© Bob Shields