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.

Copyright © M.J.C. Griffin [ASCAP]