The Ever-Echoing Dome

(Verse 1) The stone circle sleeps beneath a slate-grey sky, Where hawk's cry is the only banner high. No horn of w*r, no shouted king's decree, Just willow's sigh, a whispered, wilder plea. The land knows not of crowns or iron creed, Its anthem is the brown fern's fruitful seed. And freedom wears the cloak of morning mist, Upon the cheek where thistle rain has kissed. (Chorus) Hear the sounds of freedom, low and deep and clear: The stag's bold challenge to the listening ear, The salmon's leap where the crystal river runs, The crack of ice beneath a thousand suns. The wren's defiance from the thorny breast, The weary badger sinking to his rest. These are the tones that bind the soul to home, The ancient, untamed, ever-echoing dome. (Verse 2) They speak of chains shattered with a sword's bright fall, Of shouting masses thronging through a wall. But deeper chains are forged in silent rooms, In barren fields, in clear-cut woodland glooms. True freedom hums within the honeycomb, And beats in wings that seek the ocean's foam. It sings in choice to let the old root spread, And bless the quiet moss that clothes the d**d. (Chorus) Hear the sounds of freedom, low and deep and clear: The badger's scratch, the fallow buck's full cheer, The drip of dew from a forgotten web, The secret word the running stream has said. The wind that shapes the mountain's ancient face, The slow, sure turn of time in its own place. These are the tones that bind the soul to home, The ancient, untamed, ever-echoing dome. (Bridge) Beware the freedom loud, that deafens and destroys, That mocks the raven's wisdom, drowns out the badger's poise. For what is liberty, if not the soil's recall? The right of every seed to rise, and every leaf to fall. My law is seasons turning, my king the oak tree's shade, My nation is the horizon where the last star begins to fade. (Final Chorus) So hear the sounds of freedom, soft and deep and clear: The heartbeat of the mountain that the dreaming shepherd hears, The rustle of the parchment as the lichen writes its page, Upon the standing stone, unbound by spite or rage. The breath that stirs the heather, the hum beneath the hill, The world, alive and speaking, never conquered, never still. These are the tones that bind my soul to home, My ancient, untamed, ever-echoing dome. (Outro) (O tin whistle retorna, a melodia se dissipa lentamente, misturando-se com o som de pássaros e vento, até desaparecer no silêncio.)