You returned the book unfinished about a girl with raven hair And a gentleman, her lover, who presented her a mare Which she rode across the country, leaving him to tend the land Which had turned to drier quarter when it met his lonely hands No more weeds left in your garden No more green and no more stone No more guilty left to pardon Only evil of your own Blind man found a baby, and the virgin kissed a man From the farmland proven fertile since the rain returned again But you returned the book unfinished to your friend around the bend Who had scribed a closing passage but you never reached the end No more sparrows in your garden Since you lost your telephone No more guilty left to pardon On your hilltop all alone