[Male vocal] [Instrumental intro: wind on mountain, slow chisel on stone, bansuri] [Verse 1] When the war had found its ending And the lamps were lit at home He went up into the mountains And he carved the tale in stone With his nails upon the rock face Every battle, every vow Every word of what he'd witnessed Written there, and written now [Verse 2] It was finer than the rivers It was deeper than the snow For he'd lived it, every moment He was there, and he would know And the stones stood in the sunlight Line on line and wall on wall Telling, truer than a telling Of the one he served through all [Verse 3] [Music hushes] Then the poet climbed the mountain He who'd sung the story first Read the stones from start to finish Read the best and read the worst And he said no word of envy But his eyes grew quiet, low "Who will ever hear my telling When the world has this to know?" [Pre-Chorus] And the one who'd carved the mountain Saw the sorrow, and he knew [Chorus] [Low male chorus, slow, soft] AY-kaa BHUH-vuh-too KUH-thaa Let the story be one He lifted every carving Into the setting sun AY-kaa BHUH-vuh-too KUH-thaa Carried down to the shore And he gave them to the ocean To be read no more [Verse 4] [Deep waves rise and fall] Stone by stone into the water All his witness, all his art Not in anger, not in hiding With an open, quiet heart So the poet's song would travel Whole and single, far and free And the finest telling ever Settled sleeping in the sea [Bridge] [Sparse, bansuri and waves] But the sea keeps what it's given Only most, and never all Ages later, on a far shore One small tablet, worn and small Washed in gently with the morning And a poet read one line And he knew it wasn't his And he knew it was divine [The Prophecy] [Spoken, elder, slow, waves and drone] He did not hide his telling. He did not burn it. He gave it to the sea, so there would be one story people could gather around. Sometimes the most beautiful copy is the one that must go. And remember the tablet. What you retire may come back. A copy you thought was gone will wash up someday in someone's hands. When it does, the question is not whether it is beautiful. The question is: is it the one we agreed to tell? [Final Chorus] [Low male chorus, slow, warm] AY-kaa BHUH-vuh-too KUH-thaa Let the story be one Even what is finest Can be given, can be done AY-kaa BHUH-vuh-too KUH-thaa Carried down to the shore One shared story, standing Is worth a thousand more [Kokopelli Whisper] [Whispered, single wave] Sink your copy so the story stays one.
