Morning lifts slowly over the plain. The wagons are awake before the sun. Smoke rises from small fires. Copper catches the first light. A horse stamps the earth, ready to move on. Children chase each other between wheels worn smooth by distance. An old woman untangles thread with hands that have repaired everything except time. Someone tunes a violin without speaking. [violin joins in] The first note belongs to no one. The second belongs to everyone. [chorus - layered vocal harmonies] The road remembers our footsteps. The wind remembers our past. Carry the fire. Carry the song. Day is waiting over the next hill. [verse] The village lies beyond the trees. Some doors will open. Most will stay closed if anyone knocks. Names are offered with caution. Eyes measure strangers before words begin. [verse] The blacksmith bends iron into shapes that outlive arguments. The coppersmith hammers bowls that carry water, soup, and reflections. A well-made chair passes from parent to child. Nothing is made in a hurry. Everything remembers the hands that formed it. [chorus - layered vocal harmonies] The road remembers our footsteps. The wind remembers our past. Carry the fire. Carry the song. Day is waiting over the next hill. [verse] Music arrives after the work is done. Not as an escape. As another way of telling the truth. Feet strike the ground. Dust rises into the evening air. The fire paints every face with the same color. [verse] Night settles over the camp. The stars ask no questions. The horses rest for tomorrow. The music is done for the night [chorus - layered vocal harmonies] The road remembers our footsteps. The wind remembers our past. Carry the fire. Carry the song. Day is waiting over the next hill.
