One by one, the crickets still; silent shadows are stealing up the hill; Behind the house, the air is turning chill: Winter's coming in.
You & I, we've known the seasons, Watched the blossom from the springtime slowly ripen into fruit And through all kinds of season, it's here we're taking root, Here we're taking root.
You see everything so clearly; and I am slow to learn, But there's some pages in our history, It seemed so hard to turn: no man's made of stone.
From up here you can see the wild geese fly And that blood-orange of a sun, slipping down the sky; The wind will be in our faces, by and by.
And for the first time in a long time, The sound of summer laughter finds an echo in my heart; For the first time in a long time, I'm where the story starts, It's here the story starts. Give me your hand now, Turn your face toward the sun I understand, now: our story is just begun.
Caught in this fold of landscape I look out at the river and the dusk that's coming in My home is where your heart is, under this pale moon.
Half way up the valley, there's a house that I call home It has weathered many seasons - the men who built it are long gone; But sometimes I seem to see them, when the morning light is strong Fashioning a place to live, out of tree-trunks and rough stone.
Sometimes I seem to see them, when the morning light is strong, Builders from a bygone age, singing an ancient song; The same sun stained their forearms brown, the same wind chilled their bones: The same earth gave them the wherewithall : the tree-trunks and rough stone.
You can keep your golden palaces with their fine-wrought marble walls You can keep your high-rise luxury, it doesn't tempt me at all; You can keep on building houses, but a house don't make a home: Give me the simple honesty of tree-trunks and rough stone.
Down there in the valley, there's a place that I'll call home: It 'll be my final resting place, when my last day's work is done; You can keep your ornate monuments, your ashes and your urn: Leave me the quiet dignity of tree-trunk and rough stone.
I love the simple honesty of old farm-houses, built of local
rough-hewn stone and felled tree-trunks. I chose to live in
one, and I imagined that I would die there. With the haunting
accordion playing of Gérard Lamolère.
It's a short step from the diner to the highway, It's a long haul from the mountains to the coast; From the restless glance she flicked between the distance and the counter, I'd say our laughter stirred a ghost. Down the way, lights prickle at the edge of town, As the cowboys gather, to watch the sun go down; There's smoke and fire and laughter and hope for the ever-after But I'd say that Destiny wears a frown.
America, come weep, for what's been lost and what's been stolen, America, come weep, for all your pioneers of old; For somewhere on the way, between dream and realisation, I'd say you've gone and lost your soul.
With her elbows on the counter, and her eyes out on the highway, The waitress in the diner watches the drivers come and go; They all have destinations emblazoned on their faces, Like the old heroes on horseback who made the horizon their home. The evening news flickers from the TV in the corner, Images of blood and death that'd make your stomach churn; The waitress starts to wonder, as she polishes the glasses, How a nation of refugees took to killing in their turn.
America, come weep, for what's been lost and what's been stolen ... etc.
It's a short step from the diner to the highway, It's a long haul from the mountains to the coast; From the restless glance she flicked between the distance and the counter, I'd say our laughter stirred a ghost.