Up on the mountain there are great gods
Where the wise men never tread.
Up on the mountain where the blood makes a fountain
Clutching hands pull you down in the deep dark dead.
Up on the mountain in the darkness
The bloodstained flag waves red.
Stone waters trickle and the hammer and the sickle
Make a heartfelt sound like the long-lost dead.
Up on the mountain mid the rock peaks
There I heard a curlew cry,
And the mournful singing for a dead man swinging-
There he lies alone, unprepared to die.
Away in the mountain in the black caves
Where the glittering machinery rolls;
Slaving on to battle in the clatter and the rattle
Caring naught for the cries of the blood-red souls.
(A song lyric for the cold war).
Comments