| If these trees of old could speak
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| … oh the stories they could tell
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| A time when might sat high upon its mountains
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| Those days of pride blew away with the wind
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| But now silence rules this land
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| And everything seems to be mute
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| Only the streams are weeping mournfully
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| But if you listen their cries you can hear they’re whispering and say:
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| «We will conquer what once was ours»
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| Centuries pass and the trees of the forest have grown thicker and stronger
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| The snow sparkles in the winter sun, a raven perches high upon a snowy branch
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| To view the landscape
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| As I walk along this winter path I think to myself will it ever be as it was
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| When mighty people of long ago roamed these lands
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| When I cupped my hands to drink at a pool of water near a stream
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| I realized the answer was yes, for the wind blew the trees so the sun shone
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| Against the water and I saw my reflection
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| … I saw the portrait of a heathen
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| And I hear as the stream whispers… |