[In the style of Brian Kennedy live in a pub at the wake] Ireland woke ..... beneath a darkened sky that seemed to have ..... forgotten how to carry ..... it's weight. The roads were still wet, hedgerows moving after rain, while somewhere an unfinished song waited beside an empty mic. His guitar leaned against the wall, six strings remembering his familiar hands. No one reached for it. Silence arrived first. A woman stood at the doorway, holding together a house that suddenly echoed with a silence. She learned how "loud" absence can become. In another room, a four-year-old daughter asked "when's daddy coming home." Someone searched for words gentle enough to answer the the void. Outside, the tide continued its patient work. The gulls did not understand grief ... but they cried. The wind carried on through the long grasses, o'er the old stone walls, through villages where every face knew his name ... and knew his song. [Chorus - full pub harmonies, voices joining gradually] (Sing on, sing on, Your voice is not gone. Sing on, sing on, We carry you on.) His songs remain, not as monuments, but as small reminders Words passed from mouth to mouth. They settled inside strangers, inside lovers, inside those who had almost given up ..... life. [Chorus - full pub harmonies, voices joining gradually] (Sing on, sing on, Your voice is not gone. Sing on, sing on, We carry you on.) Perhaps that is all any one can ask. We can't outrun the darkness, but he leaves his light ... on. so that others can find each other when dark ..... falls. [FINAL CHORUS - full pub harmonies, voices joining gradually] (Sing on, sing on, Your voice is not gone. Sing on, sing on, We carry you on.) [Music falls away, leaving guitar and a distant fiddle] Sing on... Sing on... [One final distant voice] Sing on...
