O the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin
as you climb up hillside, forest and fen.
Your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine
your memories wrapped within paper and twine.
The room that you lie in is dusty and hard
sleeping soft babies on piles of yards
of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk
your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother’s milk.
When the dawn comes to greet you, you’ll rise with clothes on
and advance with the others, singing old songs
of cattle and maidens and withered old queens.
let the music carry you on.
The room that you lie in is dusty and hard
sleeping soft babies on piles of yards
of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk
your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother’s milk.