Foreboding Strings
(mmmmm-mmmmm) (ahhhh-ohhhh) The crows
gather on the broken rail
Winter
comes early and the well turns pale
Fold your cloth and bury your seed
The sky is weeping what the stones will bleed
Fire in the bramble,
ash in the grain
Nothing you gather will bear your name
(ah-hey,
ah-hey)
Turn the latch tight
before the dark comes in
Saw the river running backwards slow
Salt on the grass where the clover grow
No
bell ringing from the chapel hill
Just the iron turning against its will
Fire in the bramble,
ash in the grain
Nothing you gather will bear your name
(ah-hey,
ah-hey)
Turn the latch tight
before the dark comes in
Blood on the sickle,
rust on the plow What was promised is waking now
(hear
them coming) What was promised is at the door
(oh-lay-na,
oh-lay-na)
Turn the latch tight... (mmmmm)