Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... I walked where the wild heather grows, where nobody showed me the way, past stones with their faces to heaven, worn smooth by the weather and rain. There, high on the shoulder of evening, a raven was watching the sea. I hummed just a handful of notes— and the raven sang them with me. I followed the path through the bracken, though I'd never been there before. I knew there'd be water beyond it, a crooked old tree by the shore. I knew where the hillside would open. I knew where the cold stream would be. The wild heather bent in the west wind as if it remembered me. Who carried these notes through the winter? Who gave them their wings in the spring? Whose breath is still caught in the melody? Whose words am I trying to sing? Sing, old song, sing through me, over the hill, over the sea. I don't know your name, I don't know your words— but somehow you remember me. Sing, old song, don't tell me why. Ravens are turning in the evening sky. Perhaps I never learned your melody... Perhaps you learned me. Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... Maybe a girl stood here before me, with mud on the hem of her dress. Maybe she sang to the ravens of someone she couldn't forget. Maybe that song had been given by somebody older than she— a handful of notes passed from hand into hand, until they came looking for me. How many mouths have carried you? How many names are gone? How many fires have faded while you kept travelling on? If one day I am forgotten, if no one remembers me... Will you find another stranger and give her my melody? Sing, old song, sing through me, over the hill, over the sea. I don't know your name, I don't need your words— I know what you mean to me. Sing, old song, into the night. Wild heather moves in the fading light. Perhaps I never learned your melody... Perhaps you learned me. Sing through me... Sing through me... Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... I walked where the wild heather grows... Hmm—hm, hmm—hm... Hmm—hm... hmm—
