Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud,but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hoursjust wanting to make it through the day.There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got throughand the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories,but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desktick tick tickme not making a soundand some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind,but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine.This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely waysbut you can not let it.I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness,thinking it will help but it only feeds the fireand I don't want to hurt myself anymore.I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again.And there will always be a new day.
All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.
I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It's work and it's money and I've written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn't be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.
He likes a day in the studio to end, he says, "when my knees are all skinned up and my pants are wet and my hair's off to one side and I feel like I've been in the foxhole all day. I don't think comfort is good for music. It's good to come out with skinned knuckles after wrestling with something you can't see. I like it when you come home at the end of the day from recording and someone says, "What happened to your hand?" And you don't even know. When you're in that place, you can dance on a broken ankle.
This year has taught me the simple craft of belief. I believe in the things I’ve nurtured and built this year. Slowly but carefully. Such as understanding, knowledge, passion, strength; the hundreds of songs I’ve written, the 365 poems, the books I’ve read and the miles I’ve run. The resolution to breathe, to meditate, to not harm my mind or body even when I’ve felt like it.
There are, of course, inherent tendencies to repetition in music itself. Our poetry, our ballads, our songs are full of repetition; nursery rhymes and the little chants and songs we use to teach young children have choruses and refrains. We are attracted to repetition, even as adults; we want the stimulus and the reward again and again, and in music we get it. Perhaps, therefore, we should not be surprised, should not complain if the balance sometimes shifts too far and our musical sensitivity becomes a vulnerability.
I could crawl inside the lyrics and know each note intimately. They would claw at my soul, until I could no longer fight the emotions that took me to a place I couldn't experience. But, it was the possibility that made every verse a heart filled prediction and every beat a direction to follow.
Like a comet pulled from orbit, As it passes a sun. Like a stream that meets a boulder, Halfway through the wood. Who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you, I have been changed for good It well may be, That we will never meet again, In this lifetime. So let me say before we part, So much of me, Is made of what I learned from you. You'll be with me, Like a handprint on my heart. And now whatever way our stories end, I know you have re-written mine, By being my friend... Like a ship blown from its mooring, By a wind off the sea. Like a seed dropped by a skybird, In a distant wood. Who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you, Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.
That was the day the ancient songs of blood and war spilled from a hole in the skyAnd there was a long moment as we listened and fell silent in our griefand then one by one, we stood talland came togetherand began to sing of life and love and all that is good and trueAnd I will never forget that day when the ancient songs died because there was no one in the world to sing them.
The rest of the evening passed agreeably: the crew had their games on the main deck, resigning themselves to Sirs and dice now that dancing was out, those who would go ashore to enjoy the dining halls and tea houses went after their matches were lost, and those who remained either took themselves off to an early rest or remained with the musicians, to sing out the remainder of the evening by way of a few round songs, calling out verses in melodic dissonance, singing the history of Good Marrie the Whore and though there were “Ten hands in her purse, there was still room for one more!”,
Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued.'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said.Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song''What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question.'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?''N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking.'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o''Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?''It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently.'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know.Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious."Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.''And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?''It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted 'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him.'Would that be so bad?''Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.''It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked.Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other'Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him.'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?''So what?' Crowley challengedHalt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.''A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry
Two women at the same event wearing the same outfit is a disaster. But two women at the same event singing the same song is a party. And two women at the same event talking about Doris from Fame is a friendship for life. Fill yourself with words, choruses, and heroes, like you're supposed to fill your wardrobe with shoes, brooches, and belts.
Beautiful songs could sometimes take a person out of themselves and carry them away to a place of magic. But when Jill sang, it was not about the song, really. She could sing the phone book. She could sing a shopping list. Whatever she sang, whatever the words or the tune, it was so beautiful, so achingly lovely, that no one could listen and be untouched.
I have rooted myself into this quiet place where I don’t need much to get by. I need my visions. I need my books. I need new thoughts and lessons, from older souls, bars, whisky, libraries; different ones in different towns. I need my music. I need my songs. I need the safety of somewhere to rest my head at night, when my eyes get heavy. And I need space. Lots of space. To run, and sing, and change around in any way I please—outer or inner—and I need to love. I need the space to love ideas and thoughts; creations and people—anywhere I can find—and I need the peace of mind to understand it.
I made spasmodic efforts to work, assuring myself that once I began working I would forget her. The difficulty was in beginning. There was a feeling of weakness, a sort of powerlessness now, as though I were about to be ill but was never quite ill enough, as though I were about to come down with something I did not quite come down with. It seemed to me that for the first time in my life I had been in love, and had lost, because of the grudgingness of my heart, the possibility of having what, too late, I now thought I wanted. What was it that all my life I had so carefully guarded myself against? What was it that I had felt so threatened me? My suffering, which seemed to me to be a strict consequence of having guarded myself so long, appeared to me as a kind of punishment, and this moment, which I was now enduring, as something which had been delayed for half a lifetime. I was experincing, apparently, an obscure crisis of some kind. My world acquired a tendency to crumble as easily as a soda cracker. I found myself horribly susceptible to small animals, ribbons in the hair of little girls, songs played late at night over lonely radios. It became particularly dangerous for me to go near movies in which crippled girls were healed by the unselfish love of impoverished bellhops. I had become excessively tender to all the more obvious evidences of the frailness of existence; I was capable of dissolving at the least kind word, and self-pity, in inexhaustible doses, lay close to my outraged surface. I moved painfully, an ambulatory case, mysteriously injured.
After a while Luce curled up with her head leaning on a rock, wondering why she wasn't consumed with despair. Instead she felt an inexplicable sense of peace. She was cradled in music. The rocks around her chanted like slow, growling bells, and each curl of the water stroked her fins with silky notes. She'd been so afraid of leaving her tribe, but she understood that she never would have heard the music resonating out of every crook of the world if she hadn't taken so many risks. She'd opened her heart to the music of solitude, and it had come to her.
You are a valuable instrument in the orchestration of your own world, and the overall harmony of the universe. Always be in command of your music. Only you can control and shape its tone. If life throws you a few bad notes or vibrations, don't let them interrupt or alter your song.
WILL YOU DANCE WITH MEAs we stand here,Hand in hand,Under the neon lightsOf Truth and Love.I'm asking you toDance with me.To twirl,Kick,Drop,Jump,And flyWith me.Skidding andSliding acrossThe dancefloor of life,I want you toGlide with me.Through theSaddest andHappiest songs,The fastest highsTo the longest andSlowest lows,I want you toFlow throughThem allWithMe.
And I thought about how many people have loved those songs. And how many people got through a lot of bad times because of those songs. And how many people enjoyed good times with those songs. And how much those songs really mean. I think it would be great to have written one of those songs. I bet if I wrote one of them, I would be very proud. I hope the people who wrote those songs are happy. I hope they feel it's enough. I really do because they've made me happy. And I'm only one person.
Ruby said there were many songs that you could not say anybody in particular had made by himself. A song went around from fiddler to fiddler and each one added something and took something away so that in time the song became a different thing from what it had been, barely recognizable in either tune or lyric. But you could not say the song had been improved, for as was true of all human effort, there was never advancement. Everything added meant something lost, and about as often as not the thing lost was preferable to the thing gained, so that over time we'd be lucky if we just broke even. Any thought otherwise was empty pride.
Musicians add to songs and they evolve: For as was true of human effort, there was never advancement. Everything added meant something lost, and about as often as not the thing lost was preferable to the thing gained, so that over time we'd be lucky if we just broke even. Any thought otherwise was empty pride. p. 380
Music brings relief! Hymns change mood! Songs empower the downhearted. Sing songs always! When all things seem down, sing a good and an inspiring song! When you seem to be wasting your energy on toxic thoughts, invoke your spirit with an amazing song! Songs have power! Empower your life with good songs!
Two people, two hands, and two songs, in this case "Big Shot" and "Bette Davis Eyes." The lyrics of the two songs provided no commentary, honest or ironic, on the proceedings. They were merely there and always underfoot, the insistent gray muck that was pop culture. It stuck to our shoes and we tracked it through our lives.
There are basically three types of songs: loved songs, unloved songs, and transitional songs written by tired people in between the two. Love songs are cheesy, unloved songs are depressing, and transitional songs are poetry. Transitions catch the world on fire, touching on relevant topics while speaking with giddiness and despair of the lover between.
We are all beautiful instruments of God. He created many notes in music so that we would not be stuck playing the same song. Be music always. Keep changing the keys, tones, pitch, and volume of each of the songs you create along your journey and play on. Nobody will ever reach ultimate perfection in this lifetime, but trying to achieve it is a full-time job. Start now and don't stop. Make your book of life a musical. Never abandon obligations, but have fun leaving behind a colorful legacy. Never allow anybody to be the composer of your own destiny. Take control of your life, and never allow limitations implanted by society, tell you how your music is supposed to sound — or how your book is supposed to be written.
We are taught to think ourselves ugly. Eyes are an assaulted sense. We are taught to behave by spankings and whippings. Touch is an assaulted sense. We are taught we should not smell, or we smell wrong. Smell is an assaulted sense. We listen to songs that call us 'hos and tell us how to give blow jobs. Hearing is an assaulted sense. Taste, not so much.
He laughs and switches lanes. "All right. So, favorite song?""Ever?"He nods. I bite my lip and watch the just-budding trees flash by outside."I don't think I've found it yet."His mouth twists with a smile I've never seen before. And I've seen every smile."That's the right answer.
Keith Richards on change—"It's gotta go up and down. Otherwise, you won't know the difference. It would be just a bland, straight line, like lookin' at a heart machine. And when that straight line happens, baby, you're dead.
We lived only to dance. What was the true characteristic of a queen, I wondered later on; and you could argue that forever. “What do we all have in common in this group?” I once asked a friend seriously, when it occurred to me how slender, how immaterial, how ephemeral the bond was that joined us; and he responded, “We all have lips.” Perhaps that is what we all had in common: no one was allowed to be serious, except about the importance of music, the glory of faces seen in the crowd. We had our songs, we had our faces! We had our web belts and painter’s jeans, our dyed tank tops and haircuts, the plaid shirts, bomber jackets, jungle fatigues, the all-important shoes.
Music gives strength to the soul.
When I was younger, I would cling to life because life was at the top of the turning wheel. But like the song of my gypsy girl, the great wheel turns over and lands on a minor key. It is then that you come of age and life means nothing to you. To live, to die, to overdose, to fall in a coma in the street... it is all the same. It is only in the peach innocence of youth that life is at its crest on top of the wheel. And there being only life, the young cling to it, they fear death… And they should! ...For they are 'in' life.
In the wake of my broken dreamsIn the dirt and the dust and the days that felt like weeks.I found the person that I’m meant to be‘Cause when I felt like giving upWhen death was closing inI shut my eyesAnd black out the darkness with light from insideI’ve given moreThan what I’ve gotI’ve given allOf what I’m notI’ve watched this war consume all that we could becomeFacing my fears in the darkBut if I dieBefore it’s donePlease take these wordsMy final thoughtsThe only way to shine your light is in the dark.Never let life kill your sparkThis is the falloutYeah it’s the end of the worldWe’ll spread the noise to everyone and let them all know you heardA system meltdownIt’s time we exposeThe 'cause of chaos is our ownI’ve given moreThan what I’ve gotI’ve given allOf what I’m notI’ve watched this war consume all that we could becomeFacing my fears in the darkBut if I dieBefore it’s donePlease take these wordsMy final thoughtsThe only way to shine your light is in the dark.Never let life kill your sparkNever let life kill your sparkNever let life kill your sparkFacing my fears in the darkI’ve given moreThan what I’ve gotI’ve given allOf what I’m notI’ve watched this war consume all that we could becomeIf I dieBefore it’s donePlease take these wordsMy final thoughtsThe only way to shine your light is in the dark.Never let life kill your spark..
I’m passing the bar Where you first got in my car I’m not ashamed to admit That it’s you I won’t forget I saved your cigarettes andBad habits I regret But the hours flew by like cloudsWhenever I had you around Parachute loverTake me awayFrom the plane that went crashing And the earth that’s in flamesSaving you is saving me High above the redwood treesBut down below I see shadows And parachute debris We're drifting like children Along for the rideEach time we find love Another parachute arrivesOur madness will burn As bright as the sunAnd I’ll keep finding lovers But you were the one
Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lostmemories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreamsplay when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?
Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.
There is a stillness between us, a period of restlessness that ties my stomachin a hangman’s noose. It is this same lack in noise that lives, there! in thedarkness of the grave, how it frightens me beyond all things.
I can’t help but ask, “Do you know where you are?”She turns to me with a foreboding glare. “Do you?
Did Bach ever eatpancakes at midnight?
History doesn’t start with a tall buildingand a card with your name written on it, but jokes do. I think someone is takingus for suckers and is playing a mean game.
I steal one glance over my shoulder as soon as we are far from the foreboding luminance of the neon glow, and it is there that my stomach leaps into my throat. Squatting just shy of the light and partially concealed by the shade of an alley is a sinister silhouette beneath a crimson cowl, beaming a demonic smile which spans from cheek to swollen cheek.
She leaves my side and heads deeper intothe apartment singing, “—if the spirit tries to hide, its temple far away… acopper for those they ask, a diamond for those who stay.
I rouse Emily to our guests, as she finishes off our fifteenth snowman by setting the head atop its torso. She stands limp at my direction, pointing out the coming shadows and I cannot help but hear a muffled sigh as she decapitates her latest creation with a single push of her hand.
That’s a stupid name! Whirly-gig is much better, I think. Who in their rightmind would point at this thing and say, ‘I’m going to fly in my Model-A1’.People would much rather say, ‘Get in my whirly-gig’. And that’s what youshould name it.
Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'… countless books unwritten… countless songs unsung... I want to live my life in such a way that when my body is laid to rest, it will be a well needed rest from a life well lived, a song well sung, a book well written, opportunities well explored, and a love well expressed.
Nobody ever talks about the pyramids that weren't built, the books that weren't written, the songs that weren't sung. Stop letting your fear condemn you to mediocrity. Get out of your own way. Your dreams are a poetic reflection of your soul's wishes. Be courageous enough to follow them. There is no greater time than now to experience the full power of your potential. Make this the day you take the first step in the beautiful journey of bringing your dreams to life.
I remember when Elvis died. I wrote my sentiments with words of a little girl in my dear diary, "Many people wanted to see his body. They literally wanted to dig his bones out just to make sure that he was being buried. And I could not understand why. Why people could not leave him alone and let his soul rest in peace." I couldn't get it. I didn't grasp it at that time. In a head of a little girl it was hard to believe that there were mysteries to be solved. That there ruled a conspiracy theory that people thought it was odd that he was buried and the casket was never opened. They didn't believe he was dead! Oh yes. Elvis Lives! And as the world needs his songs, his words, his thoughts, his love, his light more than ever before.
I had no songs in my repertoire for commercial radio anyway. Songs about debauched bootleggers, mothers that drowned their own children, Cadillacs that only got five miles to the gallon, floods, union hall fires, darkness and cadavers at the bottom of rivers weren't for radiophiles. There was nothing easygoing about the folk songs I sang. They weren't friendly or ripe with mellowness. They didn't come gently to the shore. I guess you could say they weren't commercial.Not only that, my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio, and songs, to me, were more important that just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality, some different republic, some liberated republic. Greil Marcus, the music historian, would some thirty years later call it "the invisible republic."Whatever the case, it wasn't that I was anti-popular culture or anything and I had no ambitions to stir things up. i just thought of popular culture as lame as hell and a big trick. It was like the unbroken sea of frost that lay outside the window and you had to have awkward footgear to walk on it.I didn't know what age of history we were in nor what the truth of it was. Nobody bothered with that. If you told the truth, that was all well and good and if you told the un-truth, well, that's still well and good. Folk songs taught me that.
A place for the newly weds and nearly deads I'm counting the stones I hope you know I love you.Got a lot of friends 6 feet under us.Counting down the days till we join the party.Thoughts of your nightmare projected through mine...Breathing in these lies is no surpriseThese evil things are all we knowLets take these lives where we want to go.The future is our prize, when the stars align.Ghouls and ghosts will haunt my soul but they will never take me.Before I go, I want to show that we can make a difference. We've got some dumb perceptions.But I've got the death connection...All the hate that you have...Just throw it away Life is meant for more,But we're too distracted..Too caught up in the anger and judgment.. Caught up in the web of lies I've heard these things keep our blood boiling, Keeps us alive, and moving forward... If that's the case I was born a dead man. And I'm forever a ghost.Hatred is something that we're brought up to see.Now everybody's looking at meI hope they know... They won't get their satisfaction.
Deana Carter sings about it. Lady Antebellum sings about it. Eric Church. Gosh, not just country artists. Katy Perry. Everybody has a song about it because everybody's been through it. You find that person at eighteen and you lose yourself. And the tragedy is, it's the person who's completely opposed to everything you've ever wanted. You bond with that person, and that person breaks your heart. I'm that tragedy for you, and you're mine.
I'm not religious, and I'm not a Christian, but I do reserve the right to believe in the possibility of a God. It's kind of defending the indefensible, though; I'm critical of what religions are becoming, the more destructive they're becoming. But I think as an artist, particularly, it's a necessary part of what I do, that there is some divine element going on within my songs.
I lost my voice and my best friend tooOn swift, fierce winds and wings of blue, The cold rain fell where beams had shone, So I wrapped up tight and safe. Alone.But I missed my friend, I missed my voice, And my heart still whispered of another choiceTo break out of my binding, safe, and warm,And see what the world looked like after the storm.So I struggled free and was greeted byColorful brushstrokes across the sky,The melody of the summer breezeAnd blue wings like mine in hazel trees.On the soft, sweet air of the mountain glade,We gathered together in cool, green shade,And told our stories, beginnings to ends,And found our song in the hearts of new friends.
People listening to songs are like people reading novels: for a few minutes, for a few hours, someone else gets to come in and hijack that part of your brain that's always thinking. A good book or song kidnaps your interior voice and does all the driving. With the artist in charge you're free for a little while to leave your body and be someone else.
There exist words of mediocrity, songs of mediocrity, and life lessons of mediocrity. Advice of mediocrity, books of mediocrity and companions of mediocrity are also available.One may also meet songs of purpose that can make us ponder to wonder and advice filled with authority to dare in life. We may also hear life lessons that can challenge and change us. What do you listen to? If what you listen to will not make you, it will mar you.
You will never find peace with these fascistsYou'll never find friends such as weSo remember that valley of JaramaAnd the people that'll set that valley free.From this valley they say we are goingDo not hasten to bid us adieu Even though we lost the battle at JaramaWe'll set this valley before we're through.All this world is like this valley called JaramaSo green and so bright and so fairNo fascists can dwell in our valleyNor breathe in our new freedoms air.
You have broken my heartI am a little kid,I cannot stop cryingI hit my feet to the ground and my hands to my headLike a flyI cannot get up from the sticky groundI cannot talk about youBecause it hurtsI feel the pain inside my bonesI cannot forget youThe reality has become dream and dream has become nightmareThese are my tearsThey are not my sweatsI have not pissed on myselfEvery drop carries pain and regretThey are all because of you,You broke my virgin heart and poor soul,I thought we belonged with each otherWe shared dreams and wishesWe shared love and devotionI did not know they were all lies,If I knew you were leaving me one day, I would have loved you more than I didMaybe it would have changed your mindBecause I still love you
Why are you making no more songs?' I said to him in a tone like that. 'Why are you making no more songs?' 'I have grown to be a man. Only children make songs -- children and idiots.' [William the road-mender about Merlin]
Then his voice resonates over the speakers again. 'A good friend helped me find these lyrics again, and I told her if she ever fell, I'd be there to catch her. She told me if I ever sang this song like I just did, it'd be a success. Well, I'm keeping up my end of the deal.
It's been the longest timeSince I've been in this place,Where I spend my whole dayHoping I'll see your face.Then I script things to say,And maybe what you'd say back.You don't know it yet,But, girl, it's a factThat I can see us Staying up late,Talking all night,But I guess I'll have to wait.'Cause it's brand-new,Yeah, I know we just met. I want to be there with you, But not just yet.Girl, you've got that look,Like you're hard to impress.So I'm bumbling with words,'Cause my mind is a mess.You were out of the blueAnd you caught me by surprise,With a slight smile, that long stare,And a challenge in your eyesI could feel all thisIn that single look,Like you could see my soul.You could read me like a book,And I think it's something.Though I know we just met,I'm gonna get there with you.You just don't know it ... yet.
Heart beats fast Colors and promises How do be brave How can I love when I'm afraid To fall But watching you stand alone All of my doubt Suddenly goes away somehow One step closer I have died everyday waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you for a Thousand years I'll love you for a Thousand more Time stands still Beauty in all she is I will be brave I will not let anything Take away What's standing in front of me Every breath, Every hour has come to this One step closer I have died everyday Waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you for a Thousand years I'll. love you for a Thousand more
Anna's voice wasn't a beautiful voice - rough edged and sorrowful, a bit used, somehow male and female at once. Yet it had more vibrancy to it than most Danish voices, which were often thin and white and too pretty to trigger a shiver. Anna's voice had the heat of the south; it warmed Einar, as if her throat were read with coals.