Cold granite floors and heavy gray sky
Old iron gates where the tired birds fly
The coffee is black and the heaters are low
The wind in the valley is starting to blow
They sit in a circle of charcoal and red
Recalling the things that the dying have said
Leather boots scuffed by a thousand long miles
Old scars on their skin in a row of long files
Sipping on silver and tasting the salt
Stopping the plague is a heavy old fault
Stone on the courtyard and ash on the breeze
Bending the darkness down onto its knees
One tells a story of a mountain of ice
Winning a war with a terrible price
The gold on the hilt of the sword is a stain
A memory carved in a season of rain
Sipping on silver and tasting the salt
Stopping the plague is a heavy old fault
Stone on the courtyard and ash on the breeze
Bending the darkness down onto its knees
The embers are popping like bones in a jar
They look at the sky for a welcoming star
No one is laughing and no one is loud
Just steady breath under a heavy wool shroud
A hand holds a cup while the other holds tight
To a rusted old blade in the middle of night
The grease on the apron the smell of the fry
The ghosts of the fallen are passing them by
The fire burns low as the morning draws near
The stories are finished and gone is the fear
They stand up together and walk to the gate
The stone of the courtyard is patient and straight
Sipping on silver and tasting the salt
Stopping the plague is a heavy old fault
Stone on the courtyard and ash on the breeze
Bending the darkness down onto its knees
Sipping on silver
Tasting the salt
Silver and stone
