| They built up strong foundations
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| for a house they made a home,
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| from stones they carved out of the mountainside.
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| They filled it with a family,
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| with noise they fueled the fire,
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| a haven that was safe from war and life.
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| And the chapel bells rang out for all the miners and their kin.
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| If only they could see the state I’m in.
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| As I’m peeling back the paper,
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| Layer upon layer,
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| Stories are still hanging in the air.
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| And they speak to me of wonder,
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| The struggle of it all,
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| Thinking of the ones that went before,
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| And it’s all here in these walls.
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| The village streets were empty,
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| As the snow, it raged outside.
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| The winter days of 1917.
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| The house fell sadly silent.
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| Another missing boy.
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| We’ll never know the horrors that he’s seen
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| And the chapel bells rang out for all the soliders and their kin.
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| If only they could see the state I’m in.
|
| As I’m peeling back the paper,
|
| Layer upon layer,
|
| Stories are still hanging in the air.
|
| And they speak to me of sorrow,
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| The ruin of it all,
|
| Thinking of the ones that went before,
|
| And it’s all here in these walls.
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| The builders, long forgotten.
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| Old occupants, unknown.
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| But this house is still a home.
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| I’m standing in the doorway with a paintbrush in my hand,
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| Trying to make some sweet sense of this place.
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| The stairs, they may be broken,
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| And the carpet’s wearing thin,
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| But a beating heart and soul still remains.
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| And though the chapel bells no longer ring
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| And the mine, it makes no sound,
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| This little house will soon be singing out.
|
| As I’m peeling back the paper,
|
| Layer upon layer,
|
| Stories are still hanging in the air.
|
| And they speak to me of wonder,
|
| The wisdom of it all,
|
| Thinking of the ones that went before,
|
| And it’s all here in these walls.
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| It’s all here in these walls. |