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#REDIRECT ] |
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{{Song infobox | |
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| Name = A Kinder Eye |
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| Cover = Guaranteed lvl.jpg |
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| Artist = ] |
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| Album = ] |
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| Released = ] |
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| track_no = 8 |
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| Recorded = 1990-1991 |
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| Genre = ] |
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| Length = 5:45 |
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| Label = ] (UK) |
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| Writer = ], George M. Green |
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| Producer = ]<br>] |
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| prev = ] |
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| prev_no = 7 |
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| next = ] |
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| next_no = 9 |
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}} |
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''A Kinder Eye'' is a song written for ] and George M. Green dedicated to the memory of Frances Robblee, George Green's mother-in-law.</br> |
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The song was launched in 1991, in the album ], album of studio of the British musical group ]. The Music speaks about a painter widow, that painted lonely. All their pictures had an expressive face. This painter had an ideal that nor she got to reach. A part of her professional and personal life was transformed by George M. Green with Mark King help and of the musicians of Level 42 in a beautiful song. Allan Holdsworth's sad "soil" contributes with the homage message that the song contains. |
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==Musicians== |
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*] - Bass/Vocals, |
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*] - Keyboards/Vocals |
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*] - Drums/Vocals/Keyboards |
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*] - Guitar |
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{{Redirect category shell| |
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and: |
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{{R from song}} |
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{{R with history}} |
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}} |
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{{DEFAULTSORT:Kinder Eye}} |
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*] - Keyboards/Vocals |
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] |
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*]- Saxes |
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==Lyrics== |
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<i>In his widowed years of longing, |
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in his windowed room of light |
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he lay the oil upon the canvas, |
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brought sweet memory to life |
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his speckled beard a brush of colour, |
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his spotted hands both grace and speed |
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I was the boy who came with evening, |
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to sweep his floors and bring his tea |
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<br><br> |
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To the world he was the Master, |
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his landscapes filled the gallery halls |
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but now he painted only portraits, |
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unframed upon his private walls |
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subjects sitting-walking-laughing |
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in playful flight or soft refrain |
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a thousand forms and colours, |
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but every face the same |
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<br><br> |
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Across the page (across the ages) |
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the moving hand of history bleeds |
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... for a kinder eye to see us, |
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not as we are, but as we dream |
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<br><br> |
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A winter's night when I arrived there, |
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he looked so tired and near the end |
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and as I cleaned his bench and brushes, |
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I wished out loud to be like him |
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he said that art was only longing, |
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trying to do what can't be done |
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and though he'd signed a thousand paintings, |
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still he'd never finished one |
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<br><br> |
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As I finished up my sweeping, |
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in his sleep he spoke her name |
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I looked again at all the portraits, |
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each and every face the same |
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not as she was in pain or sorrow, |
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but in timeless beauty seen |
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as she served his noble dream</i> |
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==External Links== |
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{{Level 42}} |
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] |
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] |
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] |