With the scent of coffee,
With wind moving over English grass,
With water dancing its way through Tudor cobblestone,
With the distant sound of a lute duet,
With rays crashing on medieval glass.
In the laughter of birth,
In the cardamom of mourning.
A secret invitation,
To rebuild this house,
To close this wound,
To carry the rose of restoration.
And I know it's you.