This land is haunted. This land has ghosts. I can hear them when the night winds blow. The unnamed who lived and died here left their bones beneath its soil. This land is haunted, this land has ghosts.
This land's a mirror of our heart The way we build it up and tear it all apart It birthed us like a mother, and we use it from the start This land's a mirror of our heart.
When the harvest comes in When it's time for reaping, I will be there to celebrate the fruits of labor And when the winter sets down While the world is sleeping I will be there to remind you there is still work to be done. A hammer in my hand ‘til setting sun.
This land's my father, It is my son. I sing the elder's stories to the young. So they may find the breath of life in of battles lost and won. This land's my father. It is my son.
When the Spring awakens, And the snow becomes the rain I will be there to sow the seed with all my neighbors. And in the heat of summer, In all its beauty and its pain You will find me, toiling underneath the blessed sun. A Hammer in my hand ‘til day is done A hammer in my hand…Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
