We can hear the craftsmen sounding
underneath the mountain streams.
They shape the birds calls round us,
they harmonise our dreams.
Each violin’s a lifetime,
it is a blistered thing.
It’s chiselled from the country’s dying,
the years it took to sing.
Listen to the hammers knocking,
breaking up the day.
Each blow’s a sparrow’s heartbeat,
each path’s a lovers’ way.
Sweet heart, the evening’s falling,
there’s a tune upon the breeze.
The craftsman’s hair is snowing,
you can hear the cattle breathe.
Through the laughter and the killing,
the village band plays on.
This song was made for dancing
and a life was never long.