The wind blows keen across the ridge Black against a charcoal grey We climb up here by the winding path made so long ago In the valley below the last few lights glow just like the embers of a fire We begin to remember, we begin to remember
We came by the sea and we took the land We spread out across the plains And on and on to the mountains Until there was nothing left to conquer The sound of chopping trees echoed through the woods We built the ships and the houses and the bridges and the fortifications Until there was nothing left to build with Now in the silver grey dome of the sky The birds fly home for winter And we all come down to the shore and stare across the waves We've got to get off the island
We carved monuments to the angry gods We hauled stone across the deserts of our own making From the standing stones to the villages To the shining palaces looking out over the water The soil is growing thin, the yield running low There's too many of us here, too many of us here And now ragged ribbons of rain sweep in As the birds fly home for winter And we all come down to the shore and stare across the waves We've got to get off the islandTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
