I love the songs of working people played
In cabins and at dances, and along
Highways where the vagabonds wander by,
Unchanged since days of early English song.
The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die
As long as mandolins and fiddles cry
The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong—
Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth,
Wherever people and their folklore throng.
Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made
Of people close to water, dust and earth:
Elements that give music its true worth
As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.
Ghosts are such wonderous beings...
Dead people have stories burried with them...
Ghosts roam around trying to find loved ones or a home...
Dead people are gone and cannot say a word...
How I wish thats ghosts and dead people were equal...
Ghosts can be solid...
Dead people are transparent to those who don`t care...
Music could have brought them together...
But what kind of music would they both have liked anyway...?
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