The dissonant bells of the sea nWho are ringing the rhymes of the deepnAs they sing of the ages asleep nNot so near or so farnnAnd the old masters wind of the wavesnSped forth for the free men and slavesnWhispers of secrets it savesnAnd about whom they aren nAnd the workings of sunshine and rain nAnd the visions they paint that remain nPulsate from my soul through my brain nIn a Spanish guitarnnThe beggar whom sits in the streetnOn his miserable throne of defeatnEnvisions no wealth there to meetnThinking nowhere is farnnAnd the laughter of children employednBy the fantasies not yet destroyednBy the dogmas of those they avoidnKnowing not what they arennAnd the right and the wrong and insanenAnd the answers they cannot explainnPulsate from my soul through my brainnIn a Spanish guitarnnTo play on a Spanish guitarnWith the sun shining down where you arenSkipping and singing a barnFrom the music aroundnnJust to laugh through the columns of treesnTo soar like a seagull in breezenTo stand in the rain if you pleasenOr to never be found