The old melody
That I tried to learn
When I gave myself over to it learned every step
And my efforts were met
When it rang and it told and it sang
Rattle on strings
Fimiliar rings
If the line is a chain past it an ink then each fiddler that played is
Another that stayed
To turn himself into the lakeand he still appears somewhere I think
And I hear the old voices singing this song will never end
It was her long ago
And continues to grow
In the fields of progeny
In the fields of progeny
"where is the culture?" you ask
I don't know
"and when is the future?" you ask
I don't know
Is it locked in the ice?
Is it under the frost?
I can hardly hear the heart beating
But it's under the snow I suppose
And where is the history?
Where is the memory?
Where is the language that I used to know?
Is it locked in the ice?
Is it under the frost?
I can hardly hear the heart beating
But it's under the snow I suppose
And I hear the old voices singing this song will never end
It was her long ago
And continues to grow
In the fields of progeny
In the fields of progeny
