Belloway Farm where the grasses can speak
is a place for the folk faint of heart.
Belloway Farm where the willows don’t weep
picks you up when you’re falling apart.
Runaway, you’ll find you way,
so long as soon you change your ways,
a change awaits you, wait for change,
and once you do you’ll run away.
Nobody can take your hand
and walk you there; oh no.
Not by sea nor by the land
can you get there; oh no.
Open up the doors ajar
to places where you’re weak.
And once you’re vulnerable enough
you’ll hear the grasses speak.
Show your fears and cry for help
and you will find your way.
Peace in pieces beckon from
the fields wherein they lay.
Belloway farm where the waters run warm
is a place for the folk free of hate.
Belloway farm where the skies seldom storm
in your heart is the key to its gate.
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