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This song was written during the years I was involved with Bosnian refugees that were being resettled in Phoenix, Arizona. My exposure to their stories and my experiences in Bosnia itself acquainted me with the sad reality that even those we are close to -- friends and neighbors who have know us all our lives -- might, in the passion of a moment, turn against us.

In Bosnia-Hercegovina, it was the result of propaganda, old grievances, greed and other sweeping issues. But to those of us looking on, and to so many of the Bosnian people themselves, it seemed amazing that friends would turn to enemies with so little cause.

However, at the same time, I was going through a time with a group of old friends that had much the same feeling and effect. Suddenly, a group that had worked and lived together creatively and well were turning on each other, pulling away, nursing hurts both that were often imagined without stopping to consider the cause or the person or the damage being done.

It a very much milder and tamer way than my Bosnian friends I was seeing that, where the hearts of men were concerned, anything could happen at any time; that the most sacred of things could be pulled down or lost; that love could go cold in the twinkling of an eye.

And so... this song.

Wide Miles of Mystery

The sea strokes the soft shore of Italy
And it fills up the deep, rolling distance,
As we glide on the glistening wide miles of mystery.
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?

Well, the hardest of words have been spoken, now
And the closest of friends have been pulled away,
And the space in between fills with wide miles of mystery.
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?

And I stand at the edge of the dark, dancing water,
And I strain to see out past the rim of the night.
And I pray for the peace that is past understanding…
Past all I can hold in my mind and my sight;
Past everything I can know.

The voices of long-dead dreams call to me
And the faces of former loves linger still.
They reach out to me over wide miles of mystery.
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?
Who knows what new thing the morning may bring?


© 2002, 2004 by Bob Ryan, Published by Leaping Armadillo Music, (ASCAP)
Words and Music by Bob Ryan, Phoenix, AZ / April 2002