Hildegard

Lyrics

The air is cold at Disibodenberg.
The year is 1141.
You close your eyes and see the living light.

You are not yet a saint, just a woman locked in stone.
And you speak the fire, and you are not alone.
Volmar writes it down, his hand tries to keep pace.
The universe you see behind your face.
A language born of God, with letters you invent,
For all the greening power heaven-sent.
You write to popes and kings, your certainty a blade.
The first notes of a symphony are made.

Oh, Hildegard, the visions burn so bright.
The harmonies you pull from silent light.
The girls you taught to sing your sky, their voices fill the hall.
Before the long, slow quiet takes it all.
Before the dust, before the unread page.
A bird of fire living in a cage.

You moved your nuns to Rupertsberg, a cloister of your own.
A garden built on rock, a legacy in stone.
And for a hundred years, your chants still held the air,
A thread of sound inside a house of prayer.
But no one thought to copy every page.
The ink began to fade with simple age.
The world outside turned on, its memory so brief.
A slow unleafing, grief that isn't grief.

And then the silence.
Not a fire, not a sword.
Just a name that no one spoke, a forgotten word.
Seven hundred winters bury Rupertsberg in snow.
Your melodies, a seed that could not grow.
They let your sharp green visions just... evanesce.
A holy nescience, a quiet nothingness.
A book becomes a curio, a relic on a shelf.
And you were lost, even to yourself.

But the letters hold. The notes do not forget.
Someone opens up the book. The ink is living yet.
So I raise this voice to break the quiet of the years.
Your Symphonia is in my mouth.
And you are here.
Hildegard.
You are here.