The old melody 
That I tried to learn 
When I gave myself over to it learned every step 
And my efforts were met 
When it rang and it told and it sang 

Rattle on strings 
Fimiliar rings 
If the line is a chain past it an ink then each fiddler that played is
Another that stayed 
To turn himself into the lakeand he still appears somewhere I think 

And I hear the old voices singing this song will never end 
It was her long ago 
And continues to grow 
In the fields of progeny 
In the fields of progeny 

"where is the culture?" you ask
I don't know
"and when is the future?" you ask
I don't know

Is it locked in the ice?
Is it under the frost?
I can hardly hear the heart beating
But it's under the snow I suppose 

And where is the history?
Where is the memory? 
Where is the language that I used to know?

Is it locked in the ice?
Is it under the frost?
I can hardly hear the heart beating
But it's under the snow I suppose

And I hear the old voices singing this song will never end 
It was her long ago 
And continues to grow 
In the fields of progeny 
In the fields of progeny