| It is 2800 B.C. |
| I quietly witness the astounding secret behind the creation of a
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| Mysterious monument in Wiltshire, England
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| The moon sheds no light on Salisbury plain
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| The day turns to night and the bonfires cease burning
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| The druids gather round and the chants fill the air
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| Their echoes resound and the living world stops turning
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| The magic words are spoken
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| As we leave the plain in silence
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| Now the circle stands alone
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| And the druids turn to stone
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| The dawn shines its light on Salisbury plain
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| The day floods the night with gilded rays of sunshine
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| The magic words were spoken
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| As we left the plain in silence
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| Then the circle stood alone
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| And the druids turned to stone
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| The rising sun is dancing on the edges of the stones
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| Casting shadows, creeping down the Avenue
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| Into the heart of the sarsen trilithons
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| I marvel at this mystery, beholder of the stars
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| A holy temple, a sacred burial ground
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| Guarding well its secrets from us all
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| The moon sheds no light on Salisbury plain
|
| The day turns to night and the bonfires cease burning
|
| The magic words are spoken
|
| As we leave the plain in silence
|
| Now the circle stands alone
|
| And the druids turn to stone |