This is the song I waited thirty years to write It fades and it focuses like shadows in my sight It's a song that was ended on a rainy summer night This is the song of my father There are times when I cannot Recall the colour of his eyes Times when I remember him as clear as summer skies There are times I think my memories of him are only lies This is the song of my father. This is the song of my father that I've never sung before Though he lives in every part of me in every living pore It's more than thirty years ago he died I've never missed him more This is the song of my father. My father was a journalist He made the language breathe And his love of words and wisdom Is what he passed onto me I hear him in my es and in my harmony This is the song of my father He was a gentle and an honest man His friends all loved him well Though he never was a saint From tales my mother used to tell There are tiimes when I hear him \ Just as clear as any bell This is the song of my father. He died when I was fourteen He never saw me grow He never knew the woman That my friends have come to know But he remains forever as he was that Rainy night When I held his hand and promised to be good. He gave me strength and laughter Though he often was in pain I hear him chuckle softly wen I wrote a clever line I wonder what he'd think of me if he could know my mind This is the song of my father