Text supplied in the project files. The original language is preserved.
Perched upon the highest bar, Cornelia speaks of wind and fire
Rooster tail points east today, storms will wash the sins away
Lightning rod and copper green, he predicts what can't be seen
Thunder speaks in ancient tongue, of the songs that won't be sung
Spin me round and I'll divine, what the elements combine
Reading every weather sign
He's the weathervane prophet, speaking truth from his high pocket
Every gust tells him the news, of tomorrow's joy and blues
From his rooftop office, fishermen seek his advice
Farmers pay his asking price, weddings, planning, crops, to sow
Only Cornelia seems to know
Does the wind speak back to him, when the daylight's growing dim
Up so high above the town, does he ever want to come down
He's the weathervane prophet, reading skies from his high pocket
Every season tells its tale, of the coming sun and hail
And in exile in this foreign affair, the storm has passed, for now
But the weathervane knows how