House of Hearts (for Thiele)

The soul of the boy is free,
No one controls him but their hearts can feel him,
He is inside them and around them.
With his love and his anger, such anger like fire,
Hungry with a young man’s passion,
Too late for this world,
He was much too late for this world.
But nearer the sky.
Little Thiele is a rainbow, A rainbow with a melody,
Little Thiele is a rainbow. With a melody,

Such a melody like rain.
The sky is overcast and grey,
Mist in your nostrils so heavy,
Black brown pencil line trees,
Wet in November,
The month of his birth. And mine his mother, The same as mine, his mother.
And he died next to God, God’s hand outstretched in a field.
And he died in God’s hand. In God’s hand,

Gentle green carpet hills. Rolling and passive hills, Thoughtful hills, pensive hills,
Where the wind whistles and charges,
Where the wind howls Mary,
Thiele’s car wrapped around a tree, Cause he did not understand about driving, too well,
He was a fire, he was a fire, he was a raging flame, He was a fire, He was a raging flame,

Much too hot to touch, So don’t you mess with da boy
‘cause God loves him. God is watching if you do him wrong.
Blue eyes quiet for a moment, And they looked at you with love,
So wise beyond his years. Wise beyond his years.
Suffer the little children, for they suffer. Suffer the little children, for he suffered.

Little Dutch boy with golden locks,
Little man so wild, mamma’s little child.
Is a sunset in magenta, and a spray of satin gold.
Thiele is in your window. You must let him in,
So open the door and hold out your hand, And welcome him forever,
And he will need no door, To your House of Hearts, And he will need no door, No door.

So leave the fire burnin for him. And your house will be forever warm,
When dry leaves drift and rippled glass quivers, it is not your imagination, it is Thiele.
Playful like an imp this young boy, He will not give you rest,
So do not expect peaceful slumber, Because you will awaken,
And you will hear the sound of his guitar, Echoing in heaven. And you will hear him play, In heaven.

The crash of grinding metal on the tree. Little shards of mosaic glass to make a monument,
Windshield shattered and bondo pieces. Blue paint chips everywhere.
His ashtray filled with the cigarettes his parents hoped he would not have,
The sound of the piercing strings they will not let you rest.
His skillful fingers will caress and bend the notes all day.

He plays a cryin song, That you will not forget.
And this boy of God, will walk where he chooses.
Into your mind my friend. So don’t expect to rest.
While the wind whistles on the hill of his death.
My friend, you will feel him too. Because he speaks to you…