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Текст песни VAN MORRISON - Let the Slave

VAN MORRISON - Let the Slave слова песни



Текст песни VAN MORRISON - Let the Slave




(Incorporating The Price Of Experience. Text: William Blake)Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the fieldLet him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bnght airLet the inchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary Years Rose and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge( )They look behind at every step and believe it is a dreamSinging: The sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morningAnd the fair Moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night For empire is no more and now the Lion and Wolf shall cease For everything that lives is holyFor everything that lives is holyFor everything that lives is holyFor everything that lixes is holy What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the priceOf all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his childrenWisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buyAnd in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sunAnd in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with cornIt is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflictedTo speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wandererTo listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry seasonWhen the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elementsTo hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blastTo hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;To rejoice in the blight that covers his fieldAnd the sickness that cuts off his children While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our doorAnd our children bring fruits and flowers Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgottenAnd the slave grinding at the millAnd the captive in chains and the poor in the prison And the soldier in the field When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier deadIt is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me




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