Eastside Ensemble: Neighbors of the BeltLine

Lyrics

This concrete river, it doesn't know the old lines on the map.
Just the pull of the sun, east from the city's heart.
One long breath, and the names just start to blur.
Over Wylie Street, the air changes.
I feel the echo from Madison Reynolds' time.
Post-Civil War, a promise laid down with the rails.
The shotgun houses stand in a line, holding their breath.
Still smelling of woodsmoke and damp earth after a summer rain.
This is Reynoldstown's rhythm, quiet and deep.
And the BeltLine sings its steady song.
Tying Kirkwood's memory to Reynoldstown's strength.
And the green quiet of Candler Park.
We're an ensemble now, playing on the same stage.
The Eastside Ensemble, turning the page.
On these old steel bones, a new story breathes.
Then the path curves toward Kirkwood.
I can almost see Sarah Wylie, thinking of her father, James.
An Irish name for a Georgia place.
The old station dreams of trains that don't come anymore.
Just another streetcar suburb, just like us.
Sharing a past of iron and ambition.
And the BeltLine sings its steady song.
Tying Kirkwood's memory to Reynoldstown's strength.
And the green quiet of Candler Park.
We're an ensemble now, playing on the same stage.
The Eastside Ensemble, turning the page.
On these old steel bones, a new story breathes.
Asa Candler bought the fields, called it Edgewood Park at first.
A name that almost stuck, a ghost on the deed.
Now it's just a long green lawn and a nine-hole course.
But the ghost is still there.
We were all born from the same iron seed.
This trail, laid over rust, it remembers for us.
From a shotgun porch, a light comes on.
From a Kirkwood bungalow, a screen door slams.
From Candler Park, the last golfer goes home.
The ensemble plays on.
Fades to silence.