Men are made from blood and bone like metal made from dust
Men are bound to die alone like metals bound to rust
Late, late, late night on the hill
The poet came a knocking on the Shaman's window sill
Help me my words don't visit me anymore
The Shaman laughed picked a mouse up from the floor
They sat there in the dark while a mooty as prepared
From the blood of the mouse and an eagle's head
Drink this said the Shaman it'll calm your mind
I promise words will flow from you like rain from the sky
The poet he drank till the glass was bare
While outside a nightingale sang in the air
Thank you said the poet may the gods bless your soul
He shook the old man's hand, walked out into the cold
Early next morning as the sun began to rise
Screams rang out across the old diamond mine
My lover, my lover, my lover he is dead
Next to his wife lay the poet in his bed
Men are made from blood and bone like metal made from dust
Men are bound to die alone like metals bound to rust
After many years passed and many tears cried
Still no one could console the poor old poet's bride
For in this life or in the next still she implored
That one of these days she would see her love once more
Then one day in the winter while the famines took a hold
Into a tavern walked a stranger from the cold
He said I'm looking for my woman I've been away for many years
The poet's widow was summoned from her tears
If its you said the widow then where have you been
The demons said the stranger they took me from my sleep
They locked me in the caves put nails through my skull
I escaped with the help of this lonesome nightingale
If its you said the widow then spin me a line
The stranger cleared his throat looked deep into her eyes
Men are made from blood and bone like metal made from dust
Men are bound to die alone like metals bound to rust
And they drank and they danced late into the night
But the poet's father was not so satisfied
Next morning the stranger was awoken with a thud
As the police came to take samples of his blood
And as the results of the tests came in
The poet's father screamed I knew it wasn't him
The lonely executioner sharpened his blade
From doing God's work a living he made
And just before he raised his axe up to the birds
He asked the stranger if he had any last words
And the shaman he smiled up on the hill
His promise to the poet was fulfilled
And the widow cried to the moon
And the nightingale sung her last tune
Men are made from blood and bone like metal made from dust
Men are bound to die alone like metals bound to rust
Men are made from blood and bone like metal made from dust
Men are bound to die alone like metals bound to rust